


The Chaos Engine

by hobbitsdoitbetter



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Criminal Masterminds, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Death- Sort Of, Molly Hooper Appreciation, Moriarty is Alive, Protective Mycroft, References to Addiction, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-04-16 14:07:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4628124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitsdoitbetter/pseuds/hobbitsdoitbetter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts with a miscalculation, one designed to burn the heart out of a certain consulting detective. </p><p>It starts with the woman who mattered, left bleeding to death in the snow. </p><p>But if Moriarty thought that taking Molly Hooper out would be easy then he is clearly very mistaken- After all, one shouldn't play with those things which live in the dark unless one is willing to be dragged into darkness too. </p><p>Just ask Sherlock Holmes...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Oh What Can Ail Thee, Knight-At-Arms?

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. I honestly have no idea where this came from- The chapter title comes, of course, from Keats' "La Belle Dame Sans Merci," but that's about all I have. Anyway, enjoy!

* * *

**~ OH WHAT CAN AIL THEE, KNIGHT-AT-ARMS? ~**

* * *

They find her on the steps of Baker Street.

She's covered in blood and contusions, her hands and face sticky with gore. There's a shoe-print on her jaw and two of her fingers are broken; Someone's taken a magic marker and written "expendable," across the scratches that mar her lovely, white throat.

They've also written "traitor," and "BITCH," across her wrists, one of which is broken.

This seems to shock John but Sherlock and Mary take the news in stoic silence.

She's grown cold by the time Sherlock gets to her, the sort of cold that comes after shivering. When he discovers her- he was sneaking out for a smoke- she's breathing but he doesn't believe that will be the case for long. Nevertheless he picks her up, brings her into the house. If she's to die, he finds himself thinking disjointedly, then it will not be on the street where anyone can see. No, his Molly-  _his? When did she become his?-_ will expire in the warmth of a fire, with people around her. People she trusts. People who care for her.

She won't be alone and she won't be frightened; He holds her hand, strokes her hair off her face as John swarms over her, trying to help.

It's only afterwards that he realises how difficult he should have found such tenderness.

At the time it had been very, very easy, but then he has always suspected that with Molly it would be.

John does what he can but it makes no difference: By the time the paramedics arrive she's already gone. Sherlock travels with her in the ambulance, helps them move her. Helps them sign her in. He holds her hand throughout it and he texts Mary the number he has for her brother in Singapore.  _Mary makes the difficult phone-calls but then she always does_. It's Stamford's night on and he lets him sit with her, lets him stay in the cold of the morgue as he feels her hand slowly stiffen in his.

He keeps expecting her to move. To smile. Some part of him is angry at his mind for conjuring such asinine notions.

When they take her away he makes not a sound. Merely nods to Mike as he leaves.

He goes out and finds a dealer.

The needle's in his arm before it even occurs to him that if she were still alive, she'd be furious with him.

But she's not alive to be angry, she's not alive to see him and it's this thought that Sherlock follows into the darkness inside his heart.

* * *

She wakes and she thinks, for a moment, that she's at home.

The mortuary slab is cold, dark and hard on her back, you see- Rather like her bed.

Molly is disabused of this notion when she tries to sit up and instead smacks her head into the top of the corpse drawer. She swears to herself, cradling her skull and frowning. Feeling beneath her.

When her fingers make contact with cool, familiar metal she realises where she must be.

She feels that she takes this news better than can be expected, given that she neither has a panic attack nor begins to keen like a banshee. Instead she sits still, assesses her options. After a moment she gathers her nerves and begins kicking loudly at the door to the drawer (this is not the time for delicacy or politeness and besides, she's going to scare the living daylights out of the person on call in anyway.)

To her surprise her toes don't hurt when she makes contact, the metal cover of the drawer ringing hollowly as she pounds at it. After a moment it dents and- at her next, less solid kick- it pops off, skittering across the floor and leaving her peering down at her feet in surprise.

She really hadn't meant to do that, she thinks.

_She shouldn't have been_ _**able** _ _to do that._

As she muses on this disturbing little nugget she sees a familiar face appear at her feet, its eyebrows drawn together in befuddlement.

"Mike," she says, doing her best to give him a polite nod despite her position.  _She is, after all, British_. "Any chance I could get a little help here?"

Stamford practically scrambles to pull the drawer open, holding his hand out to her and helping her sit up when he does.

He's staring at her like he's seen a ghost.

"Molly..?" he stammers, "Molly, love, is that you?"

She looks at him quizzically. "Who else would it be?"

Rather than answer her he tries to help her stand. It doesn't really work though, she can't seem to get her feet to stay under her and she ends up swaying like a drunk. Besides, now that she's out of the body drawer the bright lights of the morgue are starting to bother her. A headache is building right at the back of her eyes and her stomach's in knots, as if she's been vomiting for hours.

There's also this… thudding sound she can hear, the beat of it pounding through her though she can't ascertain its source.

It's really starting to irritate her.

"How did I get here?" she asks, partly to distract herself from the noise and partly because she can't seem to remember.

When she tries to cast her mind back to the last few hours there's a dark, black hole in her head where the memories should be-  _Which isn't disturbing at all, she can't help but think._

At her question Mike freezes. Frowns. She recognises his expression as that of someone who doesn't want to break bad news. For a moment she feels uncomfortable but then she shrugs it off- what's the worst that could have happened?

She's alive and she's fine, even if she did wake up in Cold Storage.

Rather than answer her though Mike looks off to the right. There's a tattered, bloodstained pile of clothes sitting in an evidence bag and it's only as she sees them that Molly realises she's wearing a paper hospital gown.

She's surprised she isn't shivering.

"He made us put you in that," Mike murmurs. "He wouldn't bloody calm down until we covered you. Said you'd be cold in the drawer and he didn't want you…He said he wouldn't leave if we, if we didn't take care of you…"

Molly cocks her head- "Who said that?" she asks- but before he answers her eye is drawn to a heavy black coat which is flung over her workstation.

She recognises the Belstaff instantly.

"Sherlock was here?" she says but before Mike can answer she's shaking her head, a riot of impressions breaking over her like a tide. The sound of a bass, rumbling voice. The feel of long, elegant fingers holding tightly to her own. She smells rosin and tobacco, coffee and milk soap. She sees him smile in her head, feels a kiss pressed to her cheek oh so many months ago.  _Mind the gap,_ she thinks _._

_Goodbye, Molly Hooper._

And then she's running, her feet hitting the floor as lightly as raindrops. She doesn't wait to hear Mike's answer, she doesn't need to. It feels… It feels good. Free.

Wild.

It feels like nothing she's ever let herself experience before.

It's only when she reaches the pavement outside 221B that she lets herself recognise where she's run to.

She's still not cold, she's still not shivering and though she knows that this should worry her, she finds she hasn't it in her to care.

* * *

There's a light in Sherlock's room but nobody answers the door. The moon hangs, fat and full, in the sky and the stars twinkle like iron nails.

Molly's eyes rake matter-of-factly over the building and she sees the drain-pipe, takes a run and leaps. Her hands wrap easily around is as she settles all her weight onto her arms. It shouldn't work, she shouldn't be able to hold on but she does, she even manages to pull herself all the way up to his parlour window-

She doesn't know how she knows how to do all this, it just feels… right.

The window's open and she can hear notes, he's playing his violin. Goose-flesh prickles across her skin in a constellation of awareness.  _It's so much more immersive than mere sound._  She sees him huddled before the fire, his back to his sofa, legs splayed out in front of him. His head is down, eyes red and raw and he's moving his fingers over the strings harshly. Tirelessly.

She doesn't recognise the tune but it's beautiful nonetheless.

She stills for a moment as she looks at him; She can't help but recognise that what she's seeing is… private. Not meant for her, not meant for anyone.  _He would be embarrassed to have anyone witness what he's going through right now._  It's obvious that he's unaware of her watching him and something pricks at her when she thinks that. Something not entirely pleasant.

So she clears her throat, the ridiculousness of what she's doing-  _she just scaled a three story building, for God's sake_ \- starting to occur to her-

She must make some other, louder noise for he looks up. Freezes.

He stares at her and he's… He's furious. Heart-worn. Heart- _broken_.

She doesn't understand why he'd react like that.

She's in through the window and beside him faster than she can think it, her hands reaching out for him though she knows he's never wanted anyone to touch him. He catches her wrist an inch from his face. Puts the violin carefully down. Leans into her.

When she gets close enough he pulls her close, wraps his arms around her, his large form dwarfing her smaller one.

He folds her into an embrace so tight it really should hurt.

For a moment neither of them move, neither of them speak. That noise she could hear in the morgue, that pounding, it's back again but she doesn't find it irritating this time. No, this time she finds it soothing. Beautiful. It hums through her like a lullaby. A gift.

She lays her cheek on his chest and she realises it's his heartbeat.

She doesn't know how she knows it, she just  _does._

She looks up at his face, opens her mouth to tell him as much, and in that split second something else occurs to her. For she takes in his pupils, notes how dilated they are. Black very nearly drowns out the blue and the sight of that sets alarms bells ringing at the back of her mind- The last time she saw him this high she ended up slapping him three times.

She feels hot rage spark through her, so much anger for what he's done to himself, but before she can say anything he smiles. Lowers his head.

He murmurs something that sounds like her name and then suddenly… Suddenly he's kissing her.

It feels good- No, it feels more than good. It feels wonderful. It feels like everything she'd ever hoped it would be. Her skin comes alive, her body flushing with sensation and all she can think is more, more,  _more_.

Molly knows that she should pull back, that she should stop him- If he's stoned then he can't give his consent and she's not willing to take advantage of him. They're friends and friends don't do this to one another.  _But she can't seem to pull away_. For she feels a shiver go through her, feels her body shift. Shudder. Her blood seems to thicken, then speed up until it fizzes through her veins like champagne. Everything becomes louder, brighter, sharper, better, his body warm and solid against hers- his moans are musical, addictive-

She pushes him to the floor and when she joins him there, he smiles at her like she's his saviour.

The sight of it is beautiful- achingly so- and it seems absolutely natural that her teeth would find their way to his throat to tear.


	2. Fool for Love

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Please note the change in rating people- This isn't for teenagers anymore. Thanks for their reviews go to springbok7, Katya Jade, atomicflea and Westwinder. Enjoy!

* * *

~  **FOOL FOR LOVE ~**

* * *

 He moans when her teeth first pierce his skin, just as he moans when he feels her start to drink.

Helpless, writhing, he gasps and threads his hand through her hair roughly. Holds her head to his throat as the blood bubbles up-

_It seems very important that she not stop._

For her part, Molly seems to have no interest in stopping. No, she pulls him closer and closer to her. Presses into him with all her weight, bears down on him until he can't breath. Can't move. Can't even stutter. He opens his mouth to hiss in pain and she covers it with her hand. Mutes him. Her thumb presses obscenely into his tongue, cutting it, and the loss of control is delicious. Wanted. Waited for.

His hips are bracketed harshly by her thighs as she licks and laps at his throat.

With each drag of blood she sucks harder, jerking his body like a rag doll. Sherlock feels his control slip even as his cock stirs, pain and pleasure taunting it into a hardness unlike any he's ever felt before. His spine arches like a bow, delicious tension tearing him asunder.

There's fire and champagne and nicotine in his veins now and he doesn't ever want it to stop.

And stop it doesn't. Molly's body is beautiful, unyielding, as she holds him close. With a curse she pulls away from his throat- he calls out at the loss of her- but within moments he's cradled back in her arms, his back at her chest. Her legs wound around him. He can feel the twin, warm pricks of her nipples digging into his shoulder-blades, the warmth of her breasts so distracting as one of her feet comes up to taunt and press at his cock.

This way she has a better hold on him and as he thinks that he realises he might never want her to let him go.

Maybe she thinks so too for her arms wrapped tight and inescapable, around his torso. She holds him splayed against her.

She threads her fingers through his hair now, yanks his head to one side to bear his throat with a delicious, fearless strength, finds his throat again- the wound's still open- and then her teeth, her tongue and mouth are on him. In him.

_It feels so good he thinks he actually might die from it._

Her hips jerk against his body in helpless rhythm and after a moment he catches it. Begins moving too. Moving with her. Moving for her. It's at this moment that he realises he's muttering, whispering, begging her, telling her how much her loss had hurt him-

And then suddenly, without any warning, she tosses him bodily from her.

He lands messily on his hands and knees, the wrenching absence of her like a physical blow.

Faster than his eye can see she's across the room, huddled in a little ball beside the fireplace, her face hidden in her hands. She's dragged his chair in front of her to act as barrier and refuge.

For a moment Sherlock stands, discombobulated. Not understanding.

There was pleasure and now it's gone and he didn't want it to go and he doesn't know what to do about it.

But then slowly, clumsily, his attention returns to Molly. Molly.  _There was something about Molly, something he was trying to remember…_  She's started crying, there in her place beside the fireplace and Sherlock doesn't understand what's wrong with her, he just wants to make it stop.

So slowly, haltingly, he lumbers over to her. Pushes his chair messily out of the way. He kneels and reaches out a hand to her.

It comes to rest, looking big and white and ridiculous, against the darkness of her hair.

"What is it, Molly?" he asks and at his words she turns to him, her brown eyes wide and wild and luminous. "What is it that's upset you so?"

"I don't want to hurt you, Sherlock," she whispers, "I just don't want to hurt you-"

Which is, of course, when Mycroft and his boys kick in the door downstairs.

It's also when Molly starts vomiting up blood, though whether it's his or her own, Sherlock can't tell.

* * *

 John's clucking away like a mother hen, trying to clean the wound at Sherlock's throat.

Molly's sitting on his old chair to Sherlock's right, surrounded by a ring of the most heavily-armed agents the detective has ever seen.

As she sits they bark questions at her, what look like UV lights occasionally flicked up at her eyes, the impact of them making her hiss. Flinch and turn away.

Mycroft watches her from across the room, his eyes narrowed. Haunted.

_He looks like he's… up to something._

He has that expression of simultaneous guilt and triumph which Sherlock remembers from so many childhood adventures and as he thinks this, his brother moves gracefully across the room. Comes to stand before Molly.

He tips her face up to look at him and her eyes narrow. She shows him her teeth.

They appear long and sharp in the pale light of the fire.

"Quite impressive, yes, Ms. Hooper," Mycroft drawls. He holds his left hand up; a small, silver-coloured ball lies within it.

At the sight of the metal Molly hisses, turns her head away. When she looks back up at him her eyes are red-rimmed and ashamed. Hurting. She flinches away from the object, whatever it is, when he holds it near her skin and again that guilt-and-triumph-something moves through Mycroft's eyes.

It comes to Sherlock then, swift and whole as an arrow to the heart. "You did this," he says to his brother, standing and walking over to the tight little circle of agents as John tries to tend his throat and walk at the same time. "You did this to her, didn't you?"

He pushes his way in through their ranks and, with a look for confirmation to their commander who nods, the men let him. He comes to a rest beside Molly who turns her face away from him, ashamed. 

"Can you cover the blood up?" she asks faintly. "Can you- He's- He still smells-"

"What does he still smell like, Ms. Hooper?" Mycroft asks sharply.

_He still hasn't answered Sherlock's question, the detective can't help but note._

Molly mutters something, something even Sherlock doesn't catch and rises to her feet. Tries to break through the circle of agents. One bars her way, his hand on her arm and without even flinching she forces him from her bodily, shoving him so that he slides several feet and comes to rest in a rumpled heap at the corner of the parlour.

There's a horrible crick as his shoulder makes contact with the fireplace.

The room goes quiet. Dangerous. _Still_.

The agents look to Mycroft who gives a slight, barely perceptible shake of his head. Sherlock lets out the breath he hadn't realised he was holding as his brother walks slowly over to Molly. Extends his hand to her.

"You could have killed him," he tells her quietly, gesturing to the man she pushed. "You could have fed- And yet you didn't. Why is that?"

Molly looks at him like he's insane.

"Because I don't want to hurt anyone," she says quietly.

Mycroft gestures to Sherlock. "You clearly hurt my brother."

Red swarms through her skin, shame and shyness threading and twining together. Sherlock thinks he understands it. "She wasn't trying to hurt me, Mikey," he says.

Of all the things she was trying to do to him when she tore at his throat, he somehow doubts that hurting him was on the list.

As if reading his mind Molly nods, telling him he's right. He holds out his hand to her and when she doesn't close the distance between them he makes the effort, wraps his fingers around her wrist.

It feels tiny in his hand.

"Are you alright?" he asks her and she shakes her head.

Again she looks ashamed.

"Are you not alright because you hurt me?" he asks, and this time she nods.

Sherlock stares at her, the pain in his neck receding, the pain of the night forgotten.  _What's important is that she's here now, that she didn't die outside his house in the snow._ So-

"Come into my room while John has a look at me," he says. "He can have a look at you too."

Sherlock doesn't miss the fact that Mycroft presses his little silver-coloured, Molly-repelling bauble into John's hand before he lets Molly, Sherlock or the good doctor quit the room.

He doesn't miss it, but he doesn't bloody care- Molly's going nowhere without him.

* * *

 The flesh of Sherlock's throat has knit itself back together with an unnatural quickness.

This is the first thing that John reports once he, Sherlock and Molly quit the agent-infested parlour outside.

As he states this Molly can't help but note he keeps the silvery whatchamacallit Mycroft had given him quite close to the detective-

It makes her feel unhappy but Molly understands: After what she did to Sherlock tonight she can't exactly blame him.

Sherlock, on the other hand, seems to think that John's keeping the bloody thing about for his own personal amusement. He keeps demanding to see it and John keeps refusing since, "you'll throw it outside just to irritate Mycroft, I know you bloody will."

At these words the detective crosses his arms petulantly and calls John a git. Threatens to "call the Mrs. and have her come over."

This threat has exactly zero effect on John- "Do you really want her to see what Molly here did to you?" he asks pointedly and though Sherlock grimaces and pouts there's no more talk of ringing Mary.

He even sits still through the rest of his examination.

When he's finished John stands. Gestures to the mirror on the door of his wardrobe. Sherlock gets to his feet, walks over to it and peers at his now-clean throat. "You removed the bandages," he says softly as he checks his skin.

"I had no reason to leave them on," John says quietly. "As I said, the wound was gone within minutes, once I wiped the blood and the, um, the saliva away."

At his words Molly winces, shame once again darting through her. She can't believe how she behaved, what she did to him.  _She can't believe that she held her friend down and tore into his throat._

This impression is increased by what she sees of Sherlock's reflection: There's a thin, whitish line which follows the shape and texture of her teeth marks but nothing else. The only visible marks on him now are her from her fingers, where she forced his head sideways and held him down. He doesn't even look pale, his normally white skin blushing with something which looks very like a wine flush or the redness that accompanies arousal.

She flashes back to that feeling of biting him, flashes back to the sheer, raw joy of it, and without any bidding she finds herself moving towards him again, even as he moves towards her-

"Hey now," John says, holding out the Mycroft's silvery bauble between them.

As soon as she gets near it Molly's sanity returns.

She's not at all sure about Sherlock.

"Thank you, John," she says quietly, turning away, and it's this which apparently breaks whatever hold she seems to have over the detective.

Both she and John take two deep, cleansing breaths as they sit on opposite sides of the room from one another, Sherlock in the middle.

Silence reigns while he fiddles with his phone.

"What are you doing, mate?" John asks but his friend shakes his head. Gestures to the door. As if called by his brother, Mycroft enters, his eyes trained on Molly, his phone in his hand.

"So, little brother," he says. "You feel like making some accusations, do you?"

The younger Holmes smiles. It's not a pleasant sight.

"It's not an accusation when you know you're right, Mike," he says. "So why don't you explain to Molly what you know about how she got this way?"

Mycroft looks at her, at his brother, at John and then sighs. Sits down on Sherlock's bed. Molly opens her mouth and closes it- once, twice- before realising she doesn't know what to say to him.

"I just wanted to keep my brother safe," he tells her, and with that he begins to explain.


	3. Tiger On A Gold Leash

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to springbok7, Westwinder, pinta575, Herstory_Angel, oOkatiekinsOo, atomicflea and kathmak898. 

* * *

**~ TIGER ON A GOLD LEASH ~**

* * *

 There had always been stories, Mycroft explains.

Always, even when he started. Even before then.

There had been whispers of things that moved in the shadows, assets which could occasionally be called into play. But not every day and not for every assignment. Not even for most. For these whispers, they took their tithe in blood and flesh. They brought with them consequences both wondrous and terrifying.

Failure to understand this had resulted in… problems, Mycroft says. Problems which could not be dealt with. Problems which could not be rationally explained. The department still has a couple of these problems extant and on the loose, taking up residence amongst the few things which can deprive the great Mycroft Holmes of sleep-

"It's irrational, you see," he says. "Irrational and outside our understanding.

"I have no weapons against such circumstances as these."

And yet, the cord which tied him and his masters to these shadows, that had never been cut. It never would be. There had to a point of contact, some way to communicate with the other side.

"And this communication goes both ways," Sherlock says.

It is a statement, not a question. Nevertheless Mycroft nods.

"Yes," he says. "We keep our ear to the ground- As do they. And the whispers we heard most recently were that our old friend Moriarty has been playing in the darkness. Trying to make deals. Trying to buy influence."

"Has he succeeded?" This from John, his gaze sharp and worried.

Mycroft shakes his head, wanting to reassure a new father perhaps- Or maybe just proud of the little he knows.

"Our master criminal is not well liked, by the other side," he says. "Our sources indicate he has attempted manipulation. Threats and violence." A small, shark-like smile tugs at his lip. "The creatures with whom he is dealing have neither the time nor the patience for such childishness."

"So they're not interested?" Molly asks the question quietly. Hopefully.

When Sherlock looks at her, she flinches and looks away.

He feels a corresponding tug of something he will not name in his chest.

Mycroft inclines his head. "We had hoped that. Though tonight's events would seem to suggest that we have been overly optimistic."

And for a moment regret, or maybe even pity, move through his features.

Just as quickly he looks away.

Without knowing why Sherlock reaches out and takes Molly's hand. She squeezes it as she asks her next question.

"Mycroft… What am I now?" she says, and her voice sounds tiny. Frightened. "What… What did they do to me?"

Mycroft winces, as does John, but nevertheless he meets her gaze.

Sherlock knows his brother to be many things, but he is not a coward.

"The word we would use, garish as it is, is vampire," he says quietly. "Anything else would be mere euphemism. There are, of course, as many different terms as there are cultures but for what we know of the condition, that serves best."

Molly gulps. She takes the news, Sherlock can't help but think, with rather remarkable fortitude.

"And so that's why I- That's why I was able-" She gestures to Sherlock, somewhat helplessly.

He tightens his grip on her hand.

He doesn't know why but he thinks that it will help her.

"Strength is amongst the most obvious signs, yes," Mycroft says. "Speed is another. When Stanford called he said he didn't see you leave Bart's, that you were there one moment and simply gone the next."

He narrows his eyes.

"That's how you got in here too, isn't it?"

Molly nods. "I ran. It felt… Good. Right. Even without shoes. I've never… Something so small has never made me feel so happy. And then when I got here I climbed the drainpipe. I didn't even think about it, I just- I just knew how."

And she shivers, her gaze drawn to Sherlock before it skitters away.

Mycroft nods. "Yes, that would tarry with our observations in the past. The change is quick. Almost instantaneous, once the subject awakens. Instinct takes over, which probably drew you here."

His expression grows curious.

"Do you remember deciding to come here?"

She shakes her head. "No," she says honestly. "I just… Sherlock left his coat at Bart's. I saw it and I just… I just…"

She shakes her head, turns away. Without warning Sherlock pulls her tight to his side and covers her with one arm, hushing her.

The naturalness of this gesture seems to confuse both John and Mycroft but he doesn't care.

It just seems right, to want to protect Molly.

He presses a quick kiss to the crown of her head and she mumbles something, turns to him. For a moment she moves closer to his throat, lips finding his skin and applying the barest pressure. It feels exquisite and without asking himself why, Sherlock shifts his head and bares his throat in invitation, his eyelids growing heavy and fluttering shut-

Immediately Mycroft's hand dart's out, his little silver bauble gripped tightly between thumb and forefinger.

One look at it and Molly hisses, moves away from Sherlock and stands.

She walks to the corner of the room, her eyes on the three men between her and the door.

Sherlock feels an uncharitable hiss of annoyance.  _She looks so frightened._

"What is that thing?" he barks, gesturing to Mycroft's device. "And why is it frightening Molly?"

His brother doesn't answer right away, merely holds the object out to Sherlock. Lets him take it.

He watches as he handles it- checking to see whether it has the same effect on him that it does on Molly perhaps.

He seems relieved when it does not.

Sherlock doesn't care though; he hefts the thing easily, runs his fingers across it. It appears to be a small, solid ball of grey metal. Despite its size it weighs about the same as a bag of sugar. It is traversed, here and there, with carvings, runes by the looks of things. There are also thin lines and small, picked-out star shapes, giving the appearance of constellations. In some places they've been worn away- Clearly it's rather old- but in others they're fresh.

They dig pleasingly into Sherlock's thumb when he runs it over them.

"It's pure silver," Mycroft supplies. "On loan from a certain… interested party."

Sherlock looks at him sharply. "Can it hurt Molly?"

He shakes his head. "At the moment, yes. Once the transformation is complete then probably not."

Molly's head flicks up. "So I'm not all the way through the process?" she asks. "I could- I could change back-"

"No." Mycroft says the words with a certainty that seems to have a weight all its own. "There is no cure. There is no going back."

John opens his mouth, about to interject, clearly, but the elder Holmes silences him with a raised hand. "Once the process begins," he says, "it cannot be reversed. We have spent centuries trying- Millennia, possibly. It simple cannot be done."

He bows his head.

"I am sorry, Ms. Hooper," he says. "If it is any consolation, we did not believe that Moriarty's organisation would target you- We had assumed that Dr. Watson was a more logical choice."

John blanches. "So you thought that they would-"

"We thought they'd try," Mycroft says quietly. "It seemed more in Moriarty's line: New father, just married, and my brother's best friend to boot. We also assumed that he would make his attempt when you were in your home- And your darling wife was there."

John and Sherlock exchange looks.

"It might have been enough to take the assassin out, having her there," Mycroft continues. "I am not… unaware of the new Mrs. Watson's skill-set, after all." He looks at the doctor, then at Sherlock. Lowers his voice. "You may rest assured that her secret is safe with me."

John has turned livid though. "So you were going to hang me out like bait?" he snaps. "Let Moriarty's boys go Frankenstein on me and hope Mary managed to fight them off?"

Again Mycroft nods. "That was the plan, yes."

Sherlock knows what's coming next.

"But that's not all of it, is it?" he asks quietly. "Any more than it's all of what happened to Molly."

His brother shoots him a look which is simultaneously proud and incredibly irritated. It shows Sherlock that Mycroft would rather he had not put together what he just has.

"We didn't believe- even if the process took him whole- that John Watson would ever turn on you," he says quietly.

Sherlock continues for him. "No, you knew he'd remain loyal," he says. "You know he would protect me. Et voila! Suddenly I have a supernatural body-guard. Strong. Quick. Lethal- And entirely loyal to me. Not your organisation, not these "interested parties," you mentioned earlier. Just to me."

He looks at his brother who has, at least, the good grace to appear chagrined.

"Yes," Mycroft says. "If the thing was to be done anyway, I wished to secure the best possible outcome for you-"

"So you didn't warn us," Molly says, speaking over him.

She's gone awfully, awfully still, something almost… predatory moving through her eyes.

It sets every hair on the back of Sherlock's neck erect, goose-flesh breaking over his skin.

Mycroft looks at her, gestures for Sherlock to return his bauble. The detective toys with it for a moment before handing it over, moving to stand beside Molly and lay a hand on her arm.

She jerks it away, her gaze fixed on Mycroft.

Suddenly the air is thick and silent.  _Dangerous._

Mycroft meets her eyes without flinching. Draws himself up and stands. "If you're going to attack me, then attack," he says simply. "You might even argue that you're justified- What has happened to you is, I admit, partially my fault-"

Molly opens her mouth, shows her teeth. As Sherlock watches they extend, incisors lengthening, seeming to grow sharper.

It makes him shiver, though not entirely in fear.

She stalks over to his brother, leans up on tiptoe so that her lips are a mere breath away from his skin. Though he tries to hold still, nevertheless he balks: He fears making contact with her mouth, Sherlock muses. He might be afraid she'll bite him, or (more likely) there might be something specific about her kiss or touch that can effect him-

 _Like it's effecting you?_ An irritating voice- which sounds uncannily like John's- whispers in his head.  _Is that why you're taking this all so easily?_

He dismisses the question, something in him resolutely not wishing to think on it.

That such reticence might not be entirely his own doing is, likewise, a notion on which he does not wish to dwell.

Instead he watches as Mycroft meets Molly's eyes and she… She forces herself calmness. She forces herself not to hurt him.

Sherlock's not sure how he knows that's what she's doing, he just does.

After a moment's charged silence she hisses, skulks over to the window of his bedroom. Looks out onto Baker Street.

With her back turns she doesn't see the sheer relief which washes over Mycroft's face.

The elder Holmes draws himself up, takes a deep calming breath and nods to John. Sherlock. He hands his little silver safety-measure back to the good doctor. "You're probably going to need this," he says.

"Get bent," John snaps back, even as he accepts the damn thing.

Head held high Mycroft walks to the door, pauses at it. His words are addressed to Molly's back and they betray not a shred of discomfiture this time.

"Tomorrow, 2pm at The Diogenes Club," he says. "Don't worry if you don't know it- Sherlock does. I will need you to be there."

"I'm not going anywhere with you."

Molly practically spit's the words, unwilling to look around.

Mycroft's smile is cold. Unsurprised.

"You won't be going anywhere with me, Ms. Hooper," he says. "I shall have an expert there, someone to explain your new… circumstances to you." His gaze flicks to Sherlock. "Unless, of course, you're willing to allow these new abilities of yours to endanger my brother-

"Are you that reckless, Ms. Hooper?"

Sherlock knows the sound of a manipulation when he hears it, and Molly must too for she swears under her breath. He sees her fingers tighten against his windowsill, the wood cracking slightly as she inclines her head. She doesn't turn around.

"I'll be there," she says. "I wouldn't- I won't allow anything to hurt Sherlock."

Her eyes flick up and she meets the detective's gaze in the glass for a moment before once again looking away.

Mycroft inclines his head, the promise Sherlock belatedly realises he'd come into this room to procure making him smile slightly. There are times when, as much as Sherlock loves his brother, he knows him to be an utter bastard.

"That's the spirit, Ms. Hooper," Mycroft says. He at least has the courtesy to not sound as pleased as he looks. "Until tomorrow, then-"

And he leaves. Closes the door carefully behind him. After a moment Sherlock hears his army of agents begin to gather their things. Take their leave. By the time Sherlock, John and Molly quit his room there's almost no evidence of the agents' presence, except for a small pile of UV lights of various sizes. Someone has stuck a post-it on them saying,  _Use Me_.

They have also left a small fish-knife, about the length of Sherlock's hand, its blade inscribed with the same runes and constellations which Mycroft's bauble sported. It sits beside a post-it saying  _Just In Case_.

John, Molly and Sherlock wander out into the Baker Street living room. The silence is so thick, so tense, that it seems to have a will of its own. John opens his mouth- probably to offer to stay- but Sherlock shakes his head. "Go home to your wife," he tells him.

"Molly will be fine right here- As will I."

The doctor clearly looks unconvinced but he still inclines his head. Pulls out his phone and calls a cab, then calls Mary. He even tries to surreptitiously slip Sherlock the silver device Mycroft left him.

The detective takes it gladly, pockets it.

He waits for his friend to leave, puts him in the taxi and watches it pull away. When he climbs the stairs back up to his flat he finds Molly sitting in that same corner she hid in earlier, her face in her hands, body hunched in over herself.

She appears to be crying, pink-hued, droplets hanging on her eyelashes, sliding down her cheeks. Her hands. 

Without asking her permission- or questioning his motives- he picks her up. Carries her into his room.

She goes utterly still when he touches her, and she remains utterly still as he lays her down on his bed.


	4. Thrall

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to lilsherlockian1975, kathmak898, Katya Jade, oOkatiekinsOo, springbok7, roosickle, icecat62 and Westwinder. This is a dark chapter, but I am going somewhere with it, never fear. After all, what's the fun in writing about the powers of darkness if you can't screw around with your characters a bit? Ahem... 

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~  **THRALL ~**

* * *

He lays her down on his bed, still staring at her.

If this were one of Molly's fantasies, he'd be smiling by now. Kissing her, maybe. But he does not.

She's not sure whether to be disappointed or relieved by this.

Instead he's staring at her with an almost worrying intensity, his eyes still nearly-black and blazing, his too-hot hands moving to stoke gently at her calves. Her feet. His breath stutters slightly- she didn't notice before, not with everyone here- and she can hear his heart-beat thundering as it had before.

_It sounds wild and harsh in that small, close room._

With faltering hands he slides his fingers through her hair, fingertips skipping down to caress her bare shoulder, the nape of her neck. He moves forward, the motion awkward and jerking, and plants one knee on the bed. Leans over her, his hands skimming further, moving inside the hospital gown to stroke her shoulder-blades. Her vertebrae. Her ribs.

When his thumb brushes the underside of her breast she shivers.

She bites her lip so hard she thinks she must blood.

For a moment Molly gives into the sensation of what he's doing, the pleasure of it. The joy of it. She tilts her head back and closes her eyes: She doesn't want to think about everything she's experienced tonight, She doesn't want to think about what Mycroft said…

Without her telling them to her hands slide upwards to tangle in his hair. Rake at his scalp. He moans and it feels… It feels soothing. Wanted. Peaceful, as odd as that might seem.  _This is what it sounds like, when all is right with the universe._  The usual, sensible Molly Hooper would have put a stop to this sort of thing by now but she isn't the usual, sensible Molly Hooper now is she?

No, that Molly Hooper feels bloodless. Far away. She died in the snow, left like refuse on the steps of Baker Street.

And all her good intentions?  _Why those have no more body or concreteness than that of your average ghost._

So she doesn't stop Sherlock when his big, warm hands slip inside her hospital gown. She doesn't object when he touches her, when pulls himself all the way onto his bed, his body leaning over hers, pressing her into the mattress as he pulls the flimsy protective covering of her paper gown right off. She even touches him back, strokes her hands over the fine soft material of his dressing gown. His pyjama bottoms. She can feel his cock pressing into her hip as he shifts and moves. His body is strong and lean and warm. It feels good under her hands and she wants him to know that.

It feels very important that he understand how much he pleases her, and for the life of her she can't understand  _why._

But she still presses into him. Still she touches him, pulls him close to her. She knows his actions in bringing her to his bed and baring her body should come across as presumptuous, forward, but they do not.  _They can't_. Not when he's looking at her like that, so focussed, so, so… wanting. Not when she can feel his hot breath on her throat, her collar-bone. His lips glide and offer; they hang a fraction of an inch from her heating skin and it is bliss.

He looks at her, whispers to her seeming, for once, to have no care for anything around him but he and oh but that is a seductive notion, the thought of holding Sherlock Holmes' attention in the palm of her hand-

And yet, Molly's too wise to think that this can end well. She may be many things but she is not helplessly naïve.

This thing inside her, this thing that was done to her- It brings a new awareness.

And that awareness is warning her that something is very, very wrong.

For she can see the ways his hands shake, the way he shivers and trembles. His eyes are almost black, pupils dilated, that much is true, but she knows him well enough to spot the other signs, the things which he might try to hide from her.  _The things he was trying to hide from his brother._  For his skin is flushed but it's not just with sexual arousal. His breath stutters too, lungs unable to draw in enough air while his pulse gallops underneath her fingertips. And then there's the very single-mindedness with which he is touching her, so different from his usual, scattershot attention-

It's obvious really. Elementary.

She absolutely bloody hates that.

Because he's still high, though whether it's from what he took earlier or what Molly did to him, she isn't sure. She can't be.

 _How thoughtless of Mycroft to not give her more information about what she's now apparently capable of,_ she muses,  _and then leave her alone with the man she adores._

All that she can be sure about is that, no matter how good what they're doing feels, she can't take advantage of her friend, not when he's not in a position to give his full consent, and not when she's not rightly sure what her reaction to is going to do to him. She has, after all, taken advantage of him once tonight, he has the scars to prove it.

She will not, she vows to herself, allow him to be harmed again.

She frowns at this thought, disgust turning her stomach slightly even as the memory of his blood in her mouth when she bit him blooms in her mind. It was sweet. Warm. Wanted. The memory makes her mouth water even as her mind feels repelled. Horrified.  _What the hell is happening to her?_  It feels strange, as if she's being pulled every which way; disgust at what she did twines through with desire, a sense of purpose. A sense of rightness. It makes her head ache, her stomach twist into knots.

Immediately he stills. "What's wrong?" he asks and if it were anyone else you would swear he was her thoughtful, tender boyfriend, asking after her welfare.

Her heart squeezes with regret to acknowledge that he isn't.

She also finds herself wondering uneasily how he knew to stop- As far as she knows she had made no outward sign of discomfort, and yet he had obviously felt it.

Rather than examine _that_  thought she takes his wrist, stops the hand which was stroking her side and breast. Pulls it away from her with one swift, firm motion as she shakes her head. He wets his lips as she does it and she belatedly realises just how hard she's gripping him. She's going to leave a bruise. She thinks he realises as much too but he appears to… like it.

Molly doesn't know what to make of that.

Instead she drops his hand as if scalded and immediately he joins her on the bed, reaches out and tries to touch her again. To kiss her. He's smiling at her now but the smile looks slightly… glassy. Unreal.

It's nothing like the odd, crooked little one he sometimes wears when he's amongst friends and that, more than anything, steels her resolve.

"Sherlock," she says, and it's a warning.

She can feel annoyance and frustration rising within her, and for the first time in her life she feels… She feels like that might be a bad thing.

"Molly," he retorts, his tone playful and singsong, his smile guileless. Shameless.

He seems to think it's a game they're playing.

Without any warning he leans in, his body pressing up against hers again. It feels simultaneously infuriating and delicious. Molly's not sure which sentiment will take precedence.

"Sherlock," she repeats, and this time it's a threat. "Sherlock, don't-"

"You want me to." There's not a trace of doubt in his tone.

Molly frowns, shakes her head. She knows he's right.

She also knows it's more complicated than that.

"I do want you to," she says quietly, "but you're not in the right frame of mind to make a decision like this…"

"What frame of mind?" he scoffs. "The stupid, stubborn idiotic frame of mind that saw me leaving you side-lined, unprotected? The one that had me pretend I was too inhuman to even notice you?"

Now it's his turn to shake his head.

"I nearly lost you tonight," he says, "and now I've got you back and I want to, I want to…"

"I know bloody well what you want to do."

And Molly easily pushes him off her. She means to be gentle but he skids messily back across the bed, his back slamming into the footboard with a degree of force which looks painful. She hadn't meant to do that.

She doesn't want to think about how much he appears to like that too.

For he rights himself, begins stealing towards her on the bed. He moves on hands and knees, gaze fixed on her and though she knows it should feel predatory it does not intimidate her.

No, the shiver which goes through her at the sight has nothing at all to do with intimidation.

She can hear his heartbeat, feel it getting closer. Louder. Better.  _Wilder._ That thing which drew her here, that thing which told her to run and climb and bite and show her teeth, that thing is getting louder and it likes the idea of Sherlock Holmes crawling towards her. It likes the idea very, very much. So much that it's telling her to let him come, if that's what he thinks he wants from her. So much that it's telling her to hold still, bring him near-

 _Let him have his way_ , that voice inside her whispers,  _and then you can have yours…_

_**What could be fairer, after all he's done to you over the years?** _

An image blooms in her mind, Sherlock unmoving, dead, his eyes unseeing as she drinks her fill from his throat and Molly stops. Becomes still. Time seems to narrow, the universe dilating to once fixed point. It feels simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating, an event horizon of want and anticipation.  _In this moment she has no doubt that every choice is hers_. And that makes her feel strong. Powerful. Aroused. She's going to take what's hers and he's not even going to try and stop her. He's going to thank her for the pleasure- beg for it- and that is, after all, no more than her due. At the thought she feels desire coil in her, tightening her muscles and her reflexes, preparing her for a violence she's never even hoped for-

And just as suddenly she's out of the bed and on the other side of the room, horror at her own motivation making her cover her mouth. Shake her head.

She can feel the tracks of her tears drying against her skin, and it makes her feel a little sick.

For Molly Hooper- the  _real_ Molly Hooper- knows what that thing inside her was about to do. She knows what harm it would have caused, and what pleasure it would have taken in it.  _And that knowledge scares the living daylights out of her_. Because it's one thing for Mycroft Holmes to announce that she's become a creature of the night, capable of harming others. It's quite another to coldly, knowingly, enjoy the thought of hurting someone you care for as much as she cares for Sherlock Holmes- And yet, that is precisely what she was about to do.

She was even… She was even looking forward to it.

_She was even, oh God, she was even going to_ _**enjoy** _ _it._ _She was even going to enjoy hurting her friend._

For a moment the silence hangs, tense and terrible; Sherlock's staring up at her- she's wedged herself up into the corner at the top of his wardrobe, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. She can still hear his heartbeat thudding in her head and she wants to make it stop.

He stands, reaches for her and without saying a word she's out the door, up the stairs to John's old room. She pushes the bed against the door easily and then curls herself up beneath it- Keeping Sherlock out of a room in which he's in a great deal more danger than he realises. Keeping Sherlock safe until tomorrow, when she can get more information and when he, hopefully, will be sober again.

She lays there all night, curled in on herself. Afraid, for the first time in her entire life, of what she's capable of.

After an hour, she hears music; violin notes tumble through Baker Street, the same tune Sherlock had been playing when she first arrived.


	5. La Belle Dame Sans Merci

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to stomicflea, springbok7, Katya Jade, oOkatiekinsOo and icecat62. Hope you enjoy this next.

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**~ LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI ~**

* * *

Sherlock falls asleep eventually, the violin lying beside him on the sofa, his legs stretched out in front of him.

He doesn't dream, doesn't awake with night terrors as he normally does when he's high.

That in itself is… odd.

Refreshing.

_Or, alternatively, really rather worrying._

Because when he wakes he feels rested, calmer than he has in a while. His heartbeat's slow, his attention focussed. It's like the edges have been polished off the universe; the normally over-bright, over-loud, over-stimulating world about him is mute. Manageable. User-friendly, even.

It's the sort of thing he's only previously managed to bring about through drug use and yet there's nothing in his system, he's certain of it.

 _Curioser and Curioser,_ he thinks.

He pads through the flat, sets about making himself some tea. As he does so he casts his mind back to last night, back to his behaviour, and the familiar clutch of shame and panic rise in his chest, twisting.  _That, at least, is a reaction he can understand._ In the wake of Molly's loss he's wanted oblivion, forgetfulness, with a desperation which he had hitherto imagined himself no longer capable of-

He'd even thought of trying to hunt down Moriarty on his own, the notion as much an exercise in self harm as revenge.

And then, when he'd seen her alive initially he'd thought it was an hallucination, that's why he'd behaved with such abominable forwardness. Why he'd- He'd- He grimaces, unwilling to put words on that kiss, on the naked sentimentality with which he'd greeted her.  _It had felt too bloody good for him to be comfortable thinking about it_. But he hadn't been able to help himself; She had been gone and then she was back and she was real- As real as a woman murdered who's come back from the dead with a taste for human blood could be-

He stops at that thought. Crosses his arms defensively over his chest, considering.

The kettle bubbles away quietly in the background.

Without his really knowing why his hand finds its way up to his throat, fingers stroking lightly at the raised skin where Molly had bitten him and drank. The wound which had mysteriously, miraculously closed up.

The memories of last night are hazy- drugs will do that- but he does remember what Mycroft says, just as he remembers Molly's strength. Her speed.

He's embarrassed by how obviously he'd liked it.

Sherlock frowns, mulling over his reactions, his memories. Last night had been… impossible, in more ways than one. And he shouldn't be this calm, he thinks. He should be panicked. Terrified, even. Seeing a giant, hallucinogenic hound had once reduced him to babbling horror and yet realising that a dear friend may have come back from the dead as a creature of the night is barely causing him to blink.

It's… He wants to say "fascinating," but knows "worrying," would be a better fit.

Again, it occurs to him that he's taking all this awfully well.

And yet he doesn't feel worried, he feels… grateful. Grateful that she's alive. Grateful that she came back to him. And he also feels excited, jittery and alive in a way he can't rightly explain.

_It_ _'_ _s all very confusing._

He's still mulling over these things when he hears her move upstairs, senses more than hears her footsteps as she joins him. One moment he's alone in his room and the next she's there, looking wan and pale and lovely. Her eyes flicker to his teacup and then to the floor.

She seems to be having trouble making eye-contact.

"Morning, Sherlock," she mumbles, weight shifting from foot to foot, the end of her plait twining endlessly around her fingers. It makes her look about twelve years old. The sight of her in one of John's old shirts however,  _that_  sets something entirely uncharitable hissing inside Sherlock's chest.

He doesn't want her wearing something of John's, he thinks, he wants her wearing something of  _his._

He opens his mouth, means to say as much, but then realises how idiotic it sounds. The words die in his throat; She looks up at him then, her eyes dark and wide.

Without knowing why he finds himself on his feet, right in front of her. He opens his arms to her, again not entirely sure of his reasons, and she slowly, gingerly folds herself into his embrace.

As soon as he makes contact with her his worry vanishes, contentment replacing it. Pleasure too.

She's small and solid and warm against him, though he knows he's no reason to feel so bloody thrilled about it.

"I thought you'd left," he hears his own voice say quietly and it's odd, he doesn't remember thinking that. He doesn't remember deciding to say that.

Yet as soon as the words are out he knows they're true.

"I wouldn't leave you." Molly pulls back and looks at him with dark eyes, her cheeks pinking as he pulls her closer and begins stroking small circles against the small of her back. She makes this odd, soothing little humming sound at the back of her throat and he finds it absolutely delightful.

He wants, more than anything else, to make her say it more.

Without asking her permission he lifts her, deposits her before him on the kitchen counter before stepping in between her spread knees and retaking his place in her embrace-  _It seems very, very important that he stay as close to her as possible._

That humming noise she makes is getting louder as she pulls him closer, her breath tickling at his throat, her lips pressing gently to his skin in something which is almost a kiss. He sighs as he does it and she matches him; as if unbidden one of the arms around his neck snakes down, her small hand pressing gently against his chest to stroke. Her head nestles against the crook of his neck. After a moment her other hand finds his nape, tugs, his head falling sideways as her lips and then her tongue slide gently against his skin, her teeth joining them-

He moans aloud and two things happen simultaneously.

The first is that, faster than the eye can follow, Molly's out of his reach and across the room before he can say anything.

She appears to be out of breath and flushed, her arms wrapped around her torso almost as if she's in pain.

The second is that, in the split second when her lips and tongue make contact with Sherlock's skin his entire body goes alight with pleasure, an incandescence he's only previously ever felt when taking narcotics. It's better than cocaine, than heroin, than any opiate. It floods though his body like liquid bliss.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters.

 _That is,_ he knows,  _an understatement._

He leans on the counter, tries to think through the onslaught. Tries to will his heart and body to calmness, though both are painfully aroused. Every inch of his skin quakes in delight and he remembers Mycroft last night, afraid only when Molly had gotten close enough to kiss him, not when she'd shown him her teeth.  _And there,_ he thinks,  _is my answer_. It makes a lurid sort of sense: A vampire would need to incapacitate their victim in order to feed. Pleasure is a very good way of doing that and pleasure is a good way of ensuring your victims come back for more too.

 _The evolutionary logic is impeccable_.

He again wonders uneasily, just what that means for him and just as suddenly Molly's by his side, her hand stretched out, the fingers covered by the sleeve of John's shirt.

She's trying to avoid touching him, Sherlock realises.

She opens her mouth- "are you ok?"- even as he shakes his head, slides his fingers inside the shirt-cuff to test a theory. His skin makes contact with Molly's but the same narcotic rush of pleasure doesn't occur- Therefore whatever substance she uses must localised, either in her mouth or in her saliva.

 _Giving the way they can_ _'_ _t seem to keep their hands off one another,_ he thinks,  _he_ _'_ _s fairly certain he knows which one it is._

Without waiting he pulls her hand free, twines his fingers through hers. "This is safe," he says. "I think… I think it's your saliva that has the, um, the narcotic aspect."

Her face goes bright red and she shakes her head. Turns away. "That's…That's sort of disgusting," she mumbles.

Sherlock shrugs, still trying for calmness. The pleasure is starting to ebb away and he feels slightly more himself. "I don't think it's disgusting," he says. "I think… I think it's rather interesting, actually." He clears his throat, shoots her a slightly cheeky grin. "From, you know, a scientific point of view…"

She shakes her head- "You're incorrigible, do you know that?"- and as he opens his mouth to retort the bell sounds. She darts over to the window, looks down.

"Your brother sent a car," she murmurs. "We'd best… We'd best get dressed. It's Diogenes today, isn't it?"

And as quick as lightning she's out of the room. Upstairs. He can hear her moving around in John's old room and it's really rather discombobulating, Sherlock thinks, how she manages to do that.

But he finishes his tea, shrugs into a suit as quickly as he can. He even runs a brush through his curls, unwilling to appear uncouth in front of whomever Mycroft has arranged for Molly to meet.

When he comes out of his room he finds Anthea, buttoning Molly up into a brightly-coloured sundress and cardigan and Sherlock belatedly remembers she was wearing a hospital gown when she arrives last night. He nods to his brother's assistant to show his thanks and she smiles- "It didn't even occur to Mycroft," she says. "Not that I'm surprised."

She finishes buttoning the dress, presses something small and metallic and grey into Molly's hand.

"You should wear this," she says pointedly. "It will help with today."

Sherlock spies a small pendant, obviously old and worn. It's a small disc, about the size of a one pound coin, and like the silver objects last night it's engraved with stars. The phases of the moon are likewise incised into its surface, the workmanship lovely and precise.

"What is it?" Molly asks and Anthea grimaces.

"Pure iron," she says. "Not the sort of thing that will harm you now, but it's… insurance against the person we're going to meet."

Alarm sparks through Sherlock. "You think this person would harm Molly?" he asks but Anthea shakes her head.

"I think it wise she doesn't start musing on the possibility," she says. And she gives Molly a small smile, trying to be reassuring. It doesn't work. Anthea gestures to the door. "I imagine you're anxious to get this over with?" she says and Molly smiles worriedly. Agrees.

Without asking her permission, Sherlock takes her hand as they wind their way down the stairs and into the waiting car.

Anthea follows up at the rear, her eyes locked on Molly the entire time.

* * *

_The Diogenes Club,_

_Half an Hour Later_

The woman they're here to see is waiting for them when they arrive.

Judging by the look on Anthea's face, Sherlock guesses that this is not a good sign.

He, Molly and Anthea troop up several flights of stairs and then into one of the Club's back rooms- the ones only supposed to be open to members. Inside they find what appears, at first, to be an empty room; Being at the top of the house, the roof is punctuated here and there with sky-lights, most of them plain glass, a few covered in vibrant stained glass, the hues ranging from pale moss to brilliant emerald.

They sputter and fracture around the room with the vibrancy of falling stars.

A pristinely white tea-service has been laid out on a pristinely white table, three chairs set up against it, a small white bowl of what appears to be milk, bread and honey sitting in the middle of the table. A small dish of salt sits beside that, as does a plain old milk-bottle stuffed with bog cotton and heather.

Their guest stands at a bay window, staring down at the street below. She too is dressed entirely in white, from her impeccably cut three-piece trouser suit to her- judging by the red heels- Louis Vuitton ankle-boots.

She carries a cane, also white and threaded through with something that looks molten glass. Shards of green twine through it, reflected presumably from the stained glass above.

Sherlock can tell from the bulge under her shoulder that she's also carrying a concealed firearm. One look at Anthea tells him that she's noticed too.

Without his really meaning to he finds himself easing his way between Molly and their guest.

Of the woman knows what he's doing she gives no indication of it. No, she merely continues staring down onto the street below. Her hair is white- not grey, white- and it falls in perfect, straight lines to the middle of her back. When she turns her face is older, a woman in her sixties perhaps; Her exact age is hard to define though she doesn't look young, oh no.

_Sherlock can_ _'_ _t imagine she ever has._

Anthea clears her throat and she turns. Her eyes- almond-shaped and grey, with flecks of purple- flicker over Molly in disturbingly thorough assessment before they move to him and then back to Anthea.

"Guard the door," she tells the agent, and her voice is smooth. Low.

There's a trace of a Scots accent.

Anthea inclines her head politely. "I've been asked to stay with the subject-"

"I don't care what that old Sassenach told you, lass," the older woman says bluntly. "There's things to be said here that isn't for his ears, nor anyone else's."

She gestures imperiously to the door.

"Now make yourself useful."

And with that she sits down, makes a shooing motion with her cane before dipping her fingers into the bowl of milk and honey. Stirring them. After a moment she brings them to her lips, eyes closed, and tilts her head back.

She sighs in pleasure as she licks them clean.

Anthea doesn't look happy but after a moment she nods and steps outside; As soon as she does Sherlock moves nearer to Molly, his hand reaching out for hers. The pressure of her fingers against his own is… soothing.

The older woman smiles at it, gestures to the remaining two chairs. "I assume you're wanting some tea?" she says and Molly nods. Clears her throat.

She takes a seat, Sherlock beside her, and the older woman's eyes narrow as she sees their joined hands.

It makes Sherlock feel ever so slightly… exposed.

"So you've started, then," she says, jerking her chin to indicate their joined hands. "And you not a day old- Good girl." Her tone is maternal. Friendly.

Again she slips her fingers into the bowl and milk and honey, again she licks them clean.

"A woman can never start her House too soon, don't you think?" she continues, and without waiting for an answer she pours tea for herself, then Molly, then Sherlock.

She pushes both cups over the table to them and again her eyes rake assessingly over the detective. It makes him feel rather… uncomfortable.

He's not sure why.

Understanding seems to move through her eyes though for a sharp, feral smile splits her face. "So you poached from that old Whitehall fox then, eh lass?" she says, gesturing to Sherlock.

Molly blinks. "I beg your pardon?"

"You've chosen your first vassal from Mycroft Holmes' kin," she says. "Someone dear to him, very dear- I'm sure that went down well with both he and his masters." She inclines her head politely to Sherlock. "Not that I can't see why such a choice was made, of course- You're rather tempting, darling."

And she shoots him a dazzlingly lovely smile. It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

Molly seems confused though. "So you know Sherlock's related to Mycroft?" she asks and the woman nods.

"Why, it's written all over him," she says. Again she shoots him that wicked smile. "Besides, my kind make it our business to know of the Iron World and it's ways- And Mycroft Holmes is certainly a familiar element of that." She looks at Molly, then Sherlock askance. "You didn't know? He never told you of his dealings with us?"

Molly shakes her head. "No," she says quietly. "I- I'm afraid I don't know much about the, the Iron World as you call it- Or anything else. Certainly not Mycroft's business, or what's going on, or happened to me, or, or why I'm here-"

And suddenly she turns away, embarrassment written across her face. The tension from last night is probably catching up with her and Sherlock can't help it, he reaches over. Hushes her as he had when she came to him in Baker Street. For a moment Molly wraps her arms around him, clings to him.

The woman watches their interaction with cool, interested eyes.

When Molly has calmed herself a little and let go of Sherlock she murmurs an apology, goes to take more of her tea. Without asking permission the woman reaches into her jacket pocket, pulls out a small silver-coloured flagon and tips a few drops of whatever it contains into her cup.

The scent is heavy, spicier and sweeter than any alcohol Sherlock has ever encountered.

"It will calm you, lass," she says softly.

She holds some out to Sherlock in invitation and he shakes his head. There's something about the offer he doesn't quite trust and he could be imagining it, but he thinks he sees disappointment in the woman's expression, just for a second-

And then, just as quickly, it's gone.

She's smiling, holding up her teacup in toast. Molly and Sherlock both follow suit- it seems only polite- and clink their glasses together. The woman's eyes flash over to the bowl of milk and honey and with obvious effort she turns her focus away. Looks back at her tea and takes a cautious sip.

"So, lass," she says. Those lilac-flecked eyes come to rest on Molly. "You have questions for me. Ask them, that was my bargain with Mycroft."

Molly opens her mouth, seems to think better of things and closes it again.

The silence stretches out, but then-

"What can you tell me about what I am now?" she asks.

The other woman smiles. "What do you want to know, child?" Her grin grows wider. "I'm sure you'll find me... reasonable."


	6. Honey & Salt

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to springbok7, atomicflea, Icecat62 and oOkatiekinsOo. Hope you enjoy this next... The thick plottens, as they say... 

* * *

**~ HONEY AND SALT ~**

* * *

 "I suppose I should start at the beginning," Molly says uncertainly.

The woman shoots her a wry, amused smile.

"Aye, that's where your kind generally want to start from," she says. "Not my way, you know, but then it's not my choice neither."

And she snickers. Leans in and takes a dainty sip of her tea before grimacing and adding some of the fragrant liquor she offered Molly to the brew.

The second time she tastes it she sighs in satisfaction. Shoots Sherlock an insouciant smile.

Despite her best intentions, Molly finds herself gritting her teeth.

"My kind don't do well with beginnings, nor endings, darling," the woman tells Sherlock lazily. "Eternity is entirely complicated enough without bringing temporalities into things-"

"And yet temporalities are why we are here," he interrupts. He sounds irritated. "Temporalities, as you put it, indicate that this is the only meeting we will be granted to ascertain information about Molly's condition."

And he leans over the table, his voice dropping threateningly. Molly stares at him surprised at how… How insistent he's being about this.

A small stab of triumph goes through her at the realisation.

"So stop trying to confuse us or lead us off topic and let Molly ask her questions," he's saying, "Since I assume it's only questions specifically about her condition that Mycroft's strong-armed you into answering- Am I right?"

The woman's smile does not dim but it becomes sharper. More cat-like. Just for a moment something sparks in her eyes, a flash of green lightning, but just as quickly it disappears, leaving her looking more or less human once more.

With slow, careless dismissiveness she reaches back to her bowl of milk, bread and honey. Dips her fingers in before bringing them to her lips again, licking the clean again.

Her eyes never leave Sherlock's as she does it.

"Oh, I do like this one," she says eventually, and the words are lazy. Amused. There's a thread running through them though, something electric and dark. "Betimes I may trade you for him," she continues, finally turning her gaze to Molly. "He's a finer set o' stones than his brother can boast of," she says, "and that's no small matter."

And she lets out a bark of laughter.

Again her eyes flash green again and Molly feels a shiver go through her at the sight.

"But I  _am_  prevaricating," she adds, inclining her head in mock-courtesy to Sherlock, "as your boy has so eloquently pointed out. You have questions- Ask them."

And she turns so suddenly to Molly that it gives her a bit of a fright. Nothing human, not even she could move so quickly nor so fast as that. But still…

_Even knowing what she is now, even having some idea of the things she's now capable of, Molly finds this woman frightens her rather a lot._

Not that she's willing to let that show. Much.

"You called Sherlock my vassal," she begins haltingly. "Why did you call him that?"

Something close to respect moves through the woman's eyes. "A fine first question, little darkling- It's nice to see you've something betwixt your ears besides those big, calf eyes."

Out of the corner of her eye Molly sees Sherlock grimace but she says nothing.

"The reason I call the boy-" again the woman nods in his direction- "your vassal is because that is precisely what he is, now. Your vassal, your subject. The first-made member of your House and thus the one most worthy of respect by your other followers, when you choose to make them-"

Molly's horrified. "But I don't  _want_  followers," she says. "I don't want what was done to me done to someone else-"

"That doesn't matter." The woman shrugs. "It's the way of creatures like yourself," she says. "It's in you- Instinct to make more of your kind. It's what makes you so much closer to the mortals than me and mine, the need for… family, I suppose you'd call it. Companionship. Others to huddle together with in the dark.

"The pressure will build and build within you until one day…"

And she trails off, snaps her fingers right in Molly's face.

At the pathologist's horrified silence she smiles more widely, pats her hand.

"You need not fret, lass- You'll not become some mindless monster," she says. "A darkling House of more than four vassals is rare- Anything beyond six is unheard of."

Sherlock frowns. "Too many predators would make the pack unviable?" he asks and again the woman smiles. She claps in delight.

"Oh aye," she says, her accent getting stronger. "Larger Houses tear themselves apart, or they over-exert their hunting grounds until the mortals come with iron and fire to drive them out, out, out!" Her smile becomes appreciative. "Nasty business, that.

"But it's a bonny thing you are, boy, to have guessed as much. So clever! So inquisitive! Oh the Lady Yet Yielding would have such sport with ye…"

And she leans in, invitation obvious in her tone, flirtation too, before seeming to recollect herself.

The glare Sherlock is shooting her may or may not have something to do with that, Molly muses.

"So I'm… a darkling, as you call it," Molly says quietly, trying to turn this strange being's attention away from her… away from Sherlock. "Is… Is Sherlock the same as me now?"

She asks the question hesitantly, hating how damn timid it makes her sound.  _But if she_ _'_ _s hurt Sherlock already_ _…_

The woman shrugs again though. "You've not tasted his blood too thoroughly," she says, sounding bored now. Dismissive. "To bring him over you'd have to drain him; If you wish, you could leave him in this mortal state, let him live out his days in ever-greater physical dilapidation." She shakes her head."He'd not be so bonny towards the end, but he'd be human."

"So he could break free of me yet?" Molly asks hopefully.

Sherlock lets out a bark of protest, already beginning a liturgy of objections, but Molly ignores him.

 _If there_ _'_ _s a chance he could be made safe from her then she has to take it_.

The woman shakes her head though. "You've not had sufficient taste of him, lass," she says slyly, "but he's had more than enough of a taste of  _you_."

And she holds out her hand, gestures for Sherlock to take it. With a glance at Molly he does so, laying his long elegant fingers against the other woman's palm. Despite the innocence of the gesture Molly feels annoyance-jealousy- flicker through her, quick as a flame.

She hastily pushes it away.

The other woman breathes out, her eyes flashing green again, a sort of… glow, milky-white and lovely, moving beneath her skin. The air in the room seems to buzz and throb with it, thick and liquid as honey. "Come to me, boy," she murmurs, and her voice is low. Lovely.

Even Molly is a little effected, half rising from her seat before she even realises what she's doing.

Sherlock however merely stares at her, an eyebrow cocked. He does not look in any way impressed and after a moment she laughs, shakes her head slightly in amusement. She removes her hand from his and the instant the contact is broken the glow within her disappears.

The room feels rather… empty, without it and despite herself, Molly shivers.

"That was one of the strongest glamours a member of my court can use," the woman says, "and it made ne'er a scratch on him- He's definitely yours, lass."

And she takes another sip of her tea, sighing lightly as she does so; the demonstration appears to have winded her somewhat though Molly thinks she might be trying to hide it. Without his asking Sherlock reaches beneath the table, wraps his long fingers in Molly's own.

He gives no indication of it, but she can feel he's trembling a little.

Molly's blood simmers at the thought that it might be because of what was just done to him. As if able to read her thoughts the other woman looks up at her. Smirks. Her voice is mockingly innocent. "Methinks there was a bond there already," she's saying. "One of heart and bone and loyalty, before it became one of blood too.

"It's why your grip on him is so true, so strong, lass."

Again she grins that sly grin at Sherlock.

His hold on Molly tightens.

"And you, boy? Do you deny this knot, this cord, that binds you two together? Is this not what you've dreamed of for years, her beneath you? Her above you? You sunk in her, as deep as her heartbeat and impossible to root out, impossible to extract?"

Sherlock's face floods red and the woman laughs, her tone turning gleeful. Lascivious.

That buzzing, throbbing energy returns, milky light beginning to flicker under the woman's skin, more diffuse than before.

"Or is it that you dreamt of her bending you as she might a word, a tune?" she murmurs. "Did you imagine yielding to her as a rowan tree might, held taut and helpless as a sapling in a storm, eh?"

The red in Sherlock's face gets worse. Molly imagines his knuckles turning white, their grip is so strong.

She opens her mouth to defend him but he speaks over her before she can.

"Shut up," he hisses and the woman laughs outright this time.

It's mocking, horrid, and Molly likes it not at all.

"Oh, I can see it now," the woman croons. "The fear in you, the shame of it. The little Sassenach, proud of his heartlessness and terrified of his heart, as mixed up and blind as the rest of his kin. As mixed up and blind as his wily old fox of a brother.

"And she coming for you, she haunting your dreams. She making you doubt yourself and making you know yourself, lost and found altogether-

"Was that what she did to you, boy? Is it?  _IS IT_?"

Sherlock squeezes his eyes closed. "I said,  _shut up_!" he barks.

And without any warning he's out of his chair, coming across the table. He looks angry now, angrier than Molly thinks she's ever seen him and she's known him for years. He pulls against her grip, her strength the only thing restraining him from physically grappling with the woman.

He seems out of breath, pupils dilated, breath coming like a locomotive and for once in her life Molly can't imagine why.

The woman doesn't seem worried though. No, she shows him her teeth, hisses at him in encouragement. Moving faster than even Molly's eye can see she's across the table, the tea things kicked everywhere, her movements serpentine, graceful though frighteningly inhuman too.

That flask of alcohol she carries pops out of her pocket, lands on the floor, and wherever the liquid within it touches the carpet hisses, turns to ash.

"Make me stop, boy," she laughs, and her voice is deeper now, less human. Her body seems to elongate, to stretch, that white hair lengthening, reaching out almost like pincers or scimitars, hissing through the air with slicing, deadly accuracy. When Molly looks at her the green and purple of her eyes has been drowned out entirely, brilliant white replacing both retina and pupil. It looks… It looks both hideous and beautiful.

"What would you give to make me stop talking?" she's laughing. "What would you have me take? The colour of yours eyes? The timbre of your voice?

"Would you give me the skill of your fingers and a handful of your heartbeats? What do you have that you think I want, boy? Eh?

" _What do you have that I want_?"

" _ **This."**_

And, without thinking it through Molly darts forward. Takes the little pendant Anthea gave her this morning and, placing it flat in her palm, presses it right against the woman's bare cheek, the only part of her she can reach.

She puts all of her weight into it, knocking the woman several steps back.

The reaction is instantaneous: Her flesh lights up like kindling, sparking. Burning. White and green hiss through veins and she stumbles backwards, across the room. Crashes messily into the wall before regaining her feet, her cane held up and before her like a weapon, her white eyes glowing. Angry.

She reaches inside for her firearm but before she can reach it Sherlock darts forward, knocks it from her hand.

She feints at him but Molly gets between them- It takes her a moment to realise that she's showing her teeth, her body folding itself into a crouch, every muscle coiled as tightly as a spring.  _She will not let what is hers come to harm_. There's a buzzing in her head now, her flesh practically singing with it, singing with the joy of battle-

And then she hears the sound of the door behind them crashing open, hears Anthea tumbling through it. The young agent fires three bullets right into the woman, bullets which do nothing but make her stagger rather than stopping her assault even as Sherlock gains his feet and picks up one of the chairs, throws it across the room.

"Shit," Molly hears Anthea murmur. "Shit, shit, shit-" But then-

"Ni chead agat a bheith in ann," Anthea mutters. "Teigh ar ais, a chreitur, teigh ar ais!"

And she picks up the bowl of salt the woman knocked from the table when she upended the tea-things. Takes a handful of the flakes and flicks them at her, repeating her message over and over again, her voice rising on each repetition.

Every pane of glass in the room starts to shake.

The woman swings her cane at her and Molly intercepts it, pushing the woman backwards; The impact of it smashes into the wood behind her head with bone-shaking, percussive force. As it does so every window in the room- including the stained glass ones- shatter apart, the glass raining down from above like jagged snowflakes-

Anthea, Sherlock and Molly fall back towards the room's door, their arms held over their heads, Sherlock's larger torso shielding Molly's smaller one.

By the time they can look up the room is clear, the woman gone; Only the smoking, stained carpet and the tea-things remain to bear witness to her presence.

Anthea picks her way gingerly back into the room, squats down and examines the carpet critically. She pokes the burnt patch with the barrel of her gun.

"Well," she says, her tone philosophical. "I think it's safe to say Mycroft's not getting the deposit back on this room."

Molly might have had an answer for her, but she's too busy checking Sherlock to make sure he's not harmed.

* * *

  ** _Meanwhile,_**

**_Somewhere Inside The Shadow Cast By A Thousand Street-Lamps_ **

"It is as the mortal said- Together the darkling and her pet are formidable."

And the white-haired woman who had just been rousted from the Diogenes Club bows low over her Mistress' throne, her head bent in supplication. Apology.

To her right she can see the human, the Thrice-Born, grin at her obeisance in glee-  _The ignorant little shtreel of piss._

But this woman, Scathach, she doesn't raise her head, doesn't hiss at this impertinent little flesh-scrap who has wormed his way into her mistress' graces. She doesn't point out that his kind belong in the Iron World, a world so much less wondrous and fine than her own.

To do so would be to invite ridicule, or perhaps worse.  _Much worse._

She grimaces as she remembers what The Thrice-Born did to his own follower, the one named Moran, in order to gain passage to this world.

_It really doesn't bear dwelling on._

So Scathach keeps her own counsel as she describes Mycroft's delicious, addictive brother and his new keeper to her Mistress. As she describes how easily they are manipulated when it comes to one another, how divided the darkling's heart is when it comes to her vassal and his charms.

Her Mistress listens, nodding quietly, occasionally conferring with the Thrice-born as if it were any of his business what a Queen Yet Yielding might choose to do with herself or her armies- As if it were any business of his, which mortals a faerie ruler may bring into her realm-

Every so often the Thrice-born's gaze flickers to her Mistress' golden crown, his eyes pig-like and greedy- but though Scathach notices it, she can tell her Mistress does not.

* * *

 _Ni chead agat a bheith in ann_ \- You have no right to be here. 

 _Teigh ar ais, a chreitur, teigh ar ais!_ \- Go back, creature, go back. 

Both phrases are as Gaeilge, in the Irish language. I couldn't translate them into Scotsgael, which was the original intention. Unfortunately the site won't let me write them out with proper punctuation so this will have to do.  


	7. The Lost Girl

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to springbok7, sarahdvs, oOKatiekinsOo, renniejoy and NeedingAnOubliette. Hope you enjoy...  

* * *

**~ THE LOST GIRL ~**

* * *

 Molly is subdued on the way home.

She barely speaks as Anthea brings the car around, staring at the Diogenes' carpet and scuffing her shoe's toe along it until the young agent quietly takes her by the elbow and brings her outside.

Sherlock, not sure what else to do, finds himself trailing behind.

Once inside the dark-windowed Bentley the young pathologist fusses with her seatbelt, muttering to herself and managing to squeeze her body into the furthest spot from Sherlock that she can manage.  _Everything in her body-language is screaming her distress_. She keeps her head down, eyes not meeting anyone; Her long, dark hair falls forward like a curtain, obscuring her features and allowing her to effectively hide from Sherlock's attempts at initiating eye-contact and thus, conversation.

This behaviour lasts the entirety of the car-journey.

By the time they get to Baker Street Sherlock has had quite enough of it, annoyance jittering through him though he can't begin to work out how to communicate it let alone why he might be feeling the way he is. Were she to say something he'd give into his inclinations and snap but she's not doing that. She's not doing anything.  _She_ _'_ _s not even letting him give out to her_. As the car comes to a halt in front of Speedy's Sherlock hops out, turning his coat-collar up and making to march smartly into 221B, determined to leave Molly Hooper and her odd silences behind-

"Sherlock."

Anthea's voice is soft. Quiet.

She stops him with a single hand to his cuff and when he looks at her he can see a disgusting amount of understanding in her gaze.  _The sentimentality of it is loathsome._  He opens his mouth to tell her as much but even as he does she shakes her head, leans into him and presses a kiss to his cheek.

He feels, rather than sees, Molly stiffen in the car at this gesture.

It's really a most peculiar sensation, knowing something about her without knowing how he knows it.

"She's afraid," Anthea is murmuring, the words whispered directly into his ear. "The Fey- That woman you met- She could have taken you, had she wanted. She could have hurt you, had Molly not been there. It's the sort of thing that frightens us, not being able to protect the people we care about-

"So stop glowering at her for not knowing what to say to you."

And she steps away from him. Smoothes one hand across his lapel as if removing a miniscule (invisible) speck of dirt.

The gesture is almost identical to the one she performs for his brother every time he leaves the office with her.

Sherlock frowns, not entirely certain where Anthea's getting her ideas from-  _surely if there was one thing this afternoon proved, it was that Molly Hooper is more than capable of looking after herself?_ \- but even as he opens his mouth to say as much he feels another hand, smaller and slightly colder, wrap around his wrist.

He doesn't need to turn around to know who it is.

But turn around he does, to find Molly standing quite surprisingly close to him, her eyes on Anthea, her upper lip drawn back in what, on anyone else, would appear to be a snarl.

Her incisors have lengthened slightly, their points digging jaggedly into her lower lip.

Her eyes have narrowed too, darkened, and Sherlock could be mistaken but he could swear he sees flecks of… copper? In their brown depths. He sees slivers of ruby and garnet too.

The sight of it is… breathtaking. Mesmerising.

With slow, unhurried motions Anthea steps away from him, holding her hands out, palms up. She takes a deep breath as she does it, clearly nervous, and inclines her head ever so slightly, the gesture one of acquiescence.

"I didn't mean any harm," she says quietly.

Molly doesn't say anything, just keeps her gaze trained on her.

She has grown almost preternaturally still.

"I've known Sherlock a long time," Anthea adds, taking another step back. "I didn't want to see you two quarrel, not about what happened today-"

Molly moves so quickly Sherlock doesn't see her. One moment she's beside him, the next she's right next to Anthea, her face pushing into the agent's even as her hands tighten into fists at her side. Her incisors have lengthened, become more visible; For a moment she stares at the other woman, body entirely still, gaze inscrutable and, frankly, rather frightening-

And then just as suddenly she seems to break out of it. Shake it off.

That preternatural, predatory stillness disappears, Molly's usual, slightly awkward posture replacing it.

Her arms come up to wrap about her, embarrassment and then shame creeping their way across her features as she looks away from both he and Anthea.

_She really looks rather_ _…_ _lost, Sherlock can_ _'_ _t help but think._

For she takes in a deep breath, the movement visibly loosening her chest. As she does so Anthea relaxes. Smiles placatingly. It's only when she does that that Sherlock realises how nervous she was, how much damage she knows Molly to be capable of causing her. It should be enough to frighten him too but it isn't.

For some reason he can't fathom, he can't bring himself to be scared, not of little Molly Hooper.

Molly murmurs an apology to Anthea, tells her it won't happen again. Without asking himself why Sherlock walks over, wraps an arm around her shoulder as he has so many times in the last twenty-four hours and hushes her. Tells her to come inside.

As quickly as his frustration with her appeared, it has vanished, banished in the sight of her obvious discomfort around Anthea.

The agent nods to him quietly as he begins leading Molly inside, hops into the Bentley, her phone already at her ear.  _Mycroft_   _will have to be informed about today, Sherlock knows_.

Molly comes as easily as a lamb, her body shaking beneath his grip. She seems to be breathing rapidly now, the sort of breathing that comes when one is upset or afraid and for the life of him he doesn't know what to do-  _He_ _'_ _s never been the sort to be good with feelings and things_ -

But though he should feel uncomfortable he doesn't want to leave her; The panic which sentiment usually arouses in him is nowhere to be found.

Rather, he thinks back to the name the Fey used for him- vassal- and though he knows he should be uncomfortable or upset, he isn't. Like the panic he knows he  _should_  be feeling at the thought that one of his best friend's has become a creature of darkness, all he feels when he looks within himself is an odd sort of… calm.

So when Molly looks up at him, her eyes wide and troubled, those slivers of ruby and copper still flickering in their depths, he does what feels natural, not what he knows he probably should do. He reaches down, takes her face in his hands and tips it upwards. Kisses her.

The feel of her lips against his is welcome after the unpleasantness of earlier today.

For a moment she freezes- he feels a jolt of fright at the notion- but then she sighs. Kisses him back. He can feel it, that narcotic quality her kisses have. It's spreading out from his lips and tongue through his body, liquid and molten as desire itself.

There isn't anything in him that wants to halt it.

One of her hands curls at his nape; the other presses him backwards, pushing him forcefully until his backs flush with the wall of 221B's hallway. He lets out a small, low moan of pleasure at the feeling, her body pressing tightly, greedily against his own. Without thinking about it his arms wrench about her waist and she easily pulls his head down to hers.

Her knee presses lightly between both of his.

"Sherlock," she murmurs against his mouth. "Sherlock… Take me upstairs… Please take me upstairs…"

And she starts to kiss his throat. His cheeks. There's something almost… desperate about her now. One of those lovely, sharp incisors of hers nips against his ear-lobe and he shudders with the pleasure and the pain of it.

He swears he can feel it running through every inch of him, his body reacting to it like a tuning fork might to a note.

Some rational part of his mind, the part which tries to keep him safe- the part which tries to keep him  _sane_ \- warns him that this is dangerous. That he should put a stop to this right now. Molly isn't thinking straight, this voice warns him, she's probably still in the middle of the fallout from fighting the Fey woman off today-  _She_ _'_ _s probably just riding the wave of sentiment that thinking you_ _'_ _d be hurt evoked in her, creature of emotion that she is-_

But though he has often listened to this sage voice before, today Sherlock tells it to bugger off. Ignores it. Instead he reaches down and scoops her up, holds her tightly to his chest as he presses his way up the stairs. He's being ridiculous, he knows; There's no reason to do even half of this, and yet here he is.  _Here_ _ **they**_ _are_.

He has the oddest feeling though, that they've never been here at all before today.

Once they're in the door he keeps going, bringing her back to his bedroom and laying her down on the bed. She lets out a long, lonely sigh as he does it and this time- unlike last night- he stops. Looks at her.

It's the thing about her kisses, they might be drugging but they don't make him nearly so stupid as cocaine does.

Without saying anything he reaches out, brushes her hair off her face. She sighs, something that looks like pain crossing her features and he feels the sharp tug of it, almost like it's inside  _him_. Almost like it's  _her_  pain he's feeling.

He doesn't know what to make of it.

"Are you alright?" he asks and she shakes her head. Frowns. Her little hand reaches out, tracing his cheek. Her eyes are worried and sad and she bites her lip, her teeth now small and pearl-like and Mollyish again.

_Like everything else about her, they_ _'_ _re lovely._

"She could've hurt you," she says softly.

He doesn't need to ask which  _She_  Molly's referring to. Instead he takes the hand at her face. Brings it to his mouth and presses what he hopes is a nonchalant, soothing little kiss against her thumb. Her palm.

She sighs in pleasure as he does so.

"But she didn't hurt me," he points out. "She didn't get the chance- You made sure of that.

"You saved me, Molly."

And he smiles. Makes to kiss her again. She blushes, averts her eyes.

She is, as ever, uncomfortable with his praise.

"It was my pleasure," she says uncertainly and Sherlock knows where he's heard that from her before. "I don't mean pleasure, I mean… I mean, I was happy to do it-"

"I know." And again he smiles. This time he manages to kiss her forehead. Then her hair. Though she does not reciprocate she doesn't pull away either, something he takes as a good sign.

When her arms twine around his neck this time, he can feel she wants to pull him close.

So he dumps his coat, climbs up onto the bed beside her. She stiffens when she feels him lying against her but he says nothing; This time he's not going to react so foolishly as he did at the train-spotter's flat all those months ago and blurt out something asinine about all the men she likes turning out to be sociopaths.

No, he's not going to let his tongue run away with him at all.

Instead he's going to lie here, and he's going to make sure she's alright. He's going to make sure she knows that this is where he wants to be. Because even if he hadn't had the time he's had to think over what he feels for her, to think over why he was so oddly elated at her broken engagement, he now knows what it feels like to lose her. Hazy as the memories of last night are, the ones of before, the ones of watching her slip away from him in Baker Street as John tried to save her, are very real. He doubts they will ever fade for him.  _He doubts he wants them to._

He'd watched her die, her hand in his as she slid slowly into oblivion whilst he was powerless to prevent it-

"What's upset you?"

And he looks up to find her frowning down at him. Her expression is worried and he realises with a start that he wants to drive that unhappiness away. He doesn't want her to feel anything unpleasant, not while he's with her. So-

"I was remembering last night," he says gruffly, uncomfortable with the sentiment in his voice. Again she colours but this time he reaches out, kisses her shoulder since it's the nearest part of her he can reach. She lays her cheek against his crown as he does it and it feels oddly peaceful.

"Not the… biting," he says. "That's not what I was focussing on-"

"How can it not be?" she demands. "How can you think of anything else when I, when I-"

"When you drank my blood?" he asks bluntly. Better to be blunt, he thinks, then let her dance around him with euphemism. She needs to learn how little her… predilections bother him. "Or when you snogged me?" he continues. "When you defended me? When you came back to me, even though I'd felt you die-?"

He means this latter to come out as briskly and as matter-of-factly as the other statements, but it doesn't.

No- mortifyingly- his voice cracks a little on it, the emotion of that recollection apparently too much for him to ignore. (He hates that he nearly lost her.)

For a long, lean moment a very uncomfortable silence stretches out. She frowns- "You remember that?"- and he peers at her quizzically.

"Don't you?"

She shakes her head. "I've tried to remember it," she says softly. "But where the memory should be, there's just this… it's like a black hole in my mind."

And almost despite herself, she gives a little shiver. Sherlock matches her.

"Maybe they drugged me, and it's messing with my recall," she's saying. "Maybe my mind's protecting itself from the trauma by keeping the memory of it at bay…"

He shrugs. "It's possible," he says. "I have experience with both those scenarios; some sedatives will muck up recall and the mind does tend to protect itself from horrid things-"

"Like being bitten by a creature of the night?" she asks and her voice sounds tiny.

He looks at her and again he thinks she looks ashamed. Again he thinks he hates that.

"Like having a woman you thought you'd lost forever- one you care about really, rather deeply- come back to you," he says bracingly.

He kisses her shoulder once more, because he's not entirely comfortable telling her that.

She stares at him though. Blinks owlishly as if trying to process what he's saying. "So, she was right, the Fey?" she says eventually. She sounds… She sounds absolutely bewildered. "You already- I mean, you'd already started-" She whispers the words. "The bond was already there?"

He's not sure how to answer, nor how much he should admit to her. Previous to losing her he'd not even admitted the depth of his feelings to himself and he is thus instinctively hesitant to reveal too much around her.

_And yet_ _…_

"You have nineteen freckles across you nose in summer, seven of which never fade even in the depths of January," he tells her quietly. "You drink cream with her coffee when you can get it and you detest peppermint flavour toothpaste.

"Your favourite boy band was  _The Backstreet Boys_ and you think  _Take That_ vastly overrated, mainly because you never fancied any of them, and certainly not Mark Owen, as everyone assumed

"When you walk you favour your right foot slightly and when you dance you use your arms to a ridiculous and distracting degree," he continues, his voice getting quicker. "When you have to put your hair up you only ever use an elastic band and never any product, which is why it's always so soft.

"When you smile, you get a dimple right there-" he indicates the spot on his own face, which is easier since it's nearer and touching her is distracting- "And I find it rather… fetching, to be honest with you.

"You have the steadiest hands in your department and it's actually in my will that, should I die in the pursuit of my profession, I want you and only you to perform my autopsy."

She frowns at him. Sucks in a thoughtful breath. "That's… specific," she says softly.

He tries to make his smile bright. He's not sure he succeeds, judging by the frown she's still wearing.

"My requests, my dear Ms. Hooper, are always specific," he quips and she blushes. He finds himself wondering whether he has just inadvertently used a double entendre-  _John would be so proud of him-_ But instead she merely stares at him, her eyes wide and dark and questioning.

She leans in, her lips mere inches from his, and when she breathes her breath is sweet.

"You seem to notice an awful lot about me, Sherlock," she says quietly.

"I  _know_ an awful lot about you," he corrects. "Which is why the mere presence of some elongated teeth and an improvement in your reflexes doesn't bother me…" He looks her right in the eye when he says the next.

"No change Moriarty made to you could ever truly change what you mean to me... And if you let me, I'll prove it to you."

 


	8. Sweet Unrest

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. And yes, the chapter title is another nod to Keats. Thanks for their reviews go to Nydamascus97, Springbok7, oOkatiekinsOo and Westwinder. This one was quite hard to write so I hope you enjoy... 

* * *

**~ SWEET UNREST~**

* * *

 

 _Oh,_ Molly thinks,  _but Sherlock can be dangerous when he_ _'_ _s earnest._

And he's looking awfully earnest right now.

Of course, he's dangerous when he's feeling persuasive, too, she muses. And he's dangerous when he's asking for anything, mainly because Molly knows she's absolutely terrible at refusing him-

So when he leans forward- so gentle, so hesitant- and asks her to let him prove to her how he feels… Well then he sails clear across the divide between dangerous and irresistible.

He lands on the other side with nary a pause. The git.

Because even if she couldn't hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears, even if she couldn't smell his sweat and his soap and the faint scent of rosin and coffee which never leaves him, even then she doubts anyone could say no to him.

_She doubts anyone would refuse Sherlock Holmes were he looking at them like_ _**that** _ _._

And so slowly, hesitantly, she lets her arms wrap around him. Lets her body soften and loosen into his embrace even as she reaches up. Kisses him. A sigh sounds and she's not sure whether it's his or hers. His lips are soft and warm, his kisses feel like questions. He's going slowly, gently and though she knows it's not the first caress they've shared since all this began, this is the first one which doesn't stir the thing inside her-  _The first one which doesn_ _'_ _t make her pulse pound and the beast she_ _'_ _s newly borne let loose its claws-_

Another sigh sounds- definitely his, this time- and she reaches out, brushes the hair from his forehead. This brings a frown to his brow, as if he's unsure what the gesture means despite his doing it for her earlier. She raises her eyebrow in question; He shrugs, gaze skittering away from hers.

"It's nice, when you do that," he says. His tone is awkward. Gruff.

He's watching her very carefully now, as if trying to ascertain how she'll respond.

"I'm glad." And Molly reaches out and kisses his forehead. Then the bridge of his nose. His hairline. She tries to press a kiss to his eyelids and there's a moment where he frowns at her, clearly mystified by what she's doing before he takes the hint and closes his eyes.

His hands slide up to cup her waist as she does it, fingers tightening against her flesh and this time it's her turn to sigh.

"Kissing you is lovely," she says and he opens his eyes, looks at her askance. He merely nods at this piece of information, as if it had no more weight than an observation about his appearance or that of the bed.  _He is, after all, Sherlock_. She can't help but notice, however, that his fingers tighten, ever so slightly, there where they're pressed against her waist. She smiles into his cheek, nuzzling him. The sound of his heartbeat's getting louder in her ears and it's not distracting at all. But then-

"Kissing you is lovely too," he says and the words are mumbled. Uncertain. They're addressed to the hem of her top but Molly doesn't think he's looking down her cleavage.

She wouldn't be surprised if he were shocked to realise it's down there.

A little flare of pleasure goes through her and she shifts, pulling him down on top of her. He comes with a little whoop of surprise, the sound of it unexpected. Uncertain. He seems embarrassed to have made it.

"You didn't give me any warning," he says, tone half-defensive as he stares down at her, his large warm body now splayed across her smaller one.

"I thought you'd be alright," she says quietly. "Are… Are you alright?"

She doesn't want to push; She can tell this is all so new for him.

He stops though. Frowns. Appears to give the matter serious thought. At least, Molly thinks that's what he's doing and at the notion her heart twists sharply.

The affection she feels for him hasn't been this sharp, this  _poignant_ in years.

"I am fine," he says after a moment. "It's… It's easier when we're being all breathless and out of control and bitey, but it's not better. Not for me, at least."

He pauses, looks down at her with something which might be nervousness.

"Is it better for you?"

He sounds so ridiculously awkward that she has to laugh. Something, some almost-hurt thing flashes in his gaze and she can tell he thinks she's mocking him but then he takes in her smile. He must recognise the absence of malice because he nods to himself. Kisses her again. This time his tongue slides gently against the seam of her lips, diffidently requesting entry and when she allows it she feels him moan. Feels the vibration of it go through her, even as the wet, velvety warmth of his tongue slides inside to toy and play with her own.

_The sensation is bloody divine._

He shifts so that his weight's on his elbows, his knee moving with surprising accuracy to press between her thighs. It's an insistent, delicious pressure. To reward him she lets her hands slide up his back, fingers caressing each muscle and notch in his spine through his shirt before anchoring themselves in his hair.

She tugs and he gives the most lovely little moan.

She thinks she could spend all day, just figuring out what pleasurable noises she can wring from him. "Do you like that?" she asks and he nods, eager and trying not to look it.

"There isn't a thing you could do to me," he says, "that I wouldn't bloody like."

And his fair skin flushes, scarlet warming those sharp, angular cheekbones. Molly can't help it, her heart twists at the sight. She's loved him for such a long time and now they're doing  _this_. The kisses from last night, the ones which tore at her and made her bear her teeth and snarl, they felt nothing like this. This gentility. This peace. This trust.

_When she looks at him his pupils are dilated but they_ _'_ _re no darker than her own and oh but she is glad of it._

So slowly, hesitantly, she reaches out, begins unbuttoning his shirt. She works quietly, peeling the fabric away from his skin. She looks at him askance as she does so, determined to make sure he'd onboard with everything she does: She's spent so much time controlling him these last few days, she thinks, that even if it's not been her desire or intention, that she wants to be sure about his choice.

Maybe he understands because he nods, opening his cuffs and helping her slide the shirt right off him.

His hands go to the zip of her dress, his fingers halting mere millimetres from the fabric. "May I..?" he asks and she nods. Smiles. Shivers.

He matches her.

She feels the brush of his thumbs against her spine, her shoulder blades as he slides the zip slowly downwards.

He has to reach around her to do so and she can feel his breath against her bare skin.

His heartbeat's picking up, the warmth of his skin lush against her own. For a moment the rustle of fabric and their own, happy breathing are the only sounds in the room. Sherlock pushes the opened dress down her arms, pausing only to allow her to pull her arms out. He reaches out and strokes one ling, elegant digit against her chest, her heart, his finger disappearing into the valley between her breasts even as she lets out the tiniest little sigh.

"You like that," he says and it's not a question but she nods anyway.

_She wants him to understand how much she's enjoying this._

His finger traces up along her breast, dipping into the laze cup of her bra. She feels his nail slide, slight and delicate against her skin and again she sighs, pulling him to her to kiss by his hair. Her nipples pebble against the bra and she takes his other hand, fills his palm with her breast.  _His hand feels so wonderfully hot._ His breath stutters as she does so and he blinks at her, pleased and confused and embarrassed all at the same time.

 _Oh,_ she can't help thinking,  _but he is beautiful like this._

"Am I still warm?" Molly asks softly. She doesn't know why but suddenly it seems rather important.

The thought that she might not be makes her feel rather… shy.

He nods though. Smiles. Without any warning he shifts himself so that his ear is pressed against her chest, right above her heart. For a moment she's confused- she curls her hands through his hair and strokes, wondering what he's up to- but then he smiles against her skin. Presses another kiss to her chest. She understands now.

"Can you hear anything?" she asks him and he nods.

"It's slow," he tells her. "Steady. Not like mine, but not silent either." He raises his head to look in her face and the focus she can see in his gaze is remarkable. His blue eyes are electric. "I've always known you were fascinating," he says quietly, "but now-"

She drops her gaze, embarrassed. "I'm a freak," she mumbles. "A, a creature-"

"No." He shakes his head, takes her face in his hands and brings it up to his. "You're a miracle, Molly," he says and his expression is riveted. Almost reverent. "You came back to me, don't you understand how marvellous that is? I thought I'd lost you but then you found your way home…"

And he kisses her. It's almost clumsy in its passion. Its longing. When they break apart he has to suck in breath. She nods but it feels… fragile, somehow. In saying that she's opened a door into her feelings, a door she didn't necessarily wish to disturb.

There's so much that has happened to her and she can't even imagine how to begin dealing with it.

He must read the expression on her face because he shakes his head. Raises two hands and crosses his heart. "Don't be sad," he says. "Tell me what I can do to make you happy and I'll do it. I swear… I swear I'm not stoned. I swear that I'm in full control of my faculties. Your kisses- these ones now- they aren't narcotic or drugging."

He smiles.

"Well, no more than I'd imagine they usually are."

She shakes her again though. Relief blooms within her. "I'm glad to hear that, Sherlock," she says. "I never,  _ever_ want to hurt you, or make you do something you'd regret. I just don't know. I don't. There's so much going on, so much to process and I can't- I can't-"

She pauses, looks down again and his breath catches.

He dips his head to meet her gaze and when he does she can't help herself. She smiles.

She can't imagine anyone not smiling at so lovely a sight as that.

"Can you just… Can you just hold me for a bit?" she asks and it sounds ridiculous, she knows that. She has everything she's ever wanted from him being presented to her on a platter and all she can think about is how much she wants some peace. Some quiet.

She wants to wrap herself up in him and never let go.

If he thinks her request unreasonable though, he doesn't show it. Instead he sits, his back to the headboard and opens his arms. When Molly crawls into his embrace he pulls them closed around her, her ear coming to rest against his heart. His fingers move hesitantly up to stroke her scalp, toying with her hair.

She lets out a sigh and she hears a chuckle rumble through his chest.

"You still breathe, do you know that?" he says and his tone is wondering. "I assume it's some sort of automatic response, a habit the brain just can't give up." He presses a kiss to her forehead. He's turning stiff. Uncertain. She frowns at the thought. "I like it," he says eventually. Again he sounds awkward. "Seeing you in the morgue, not moving, not breathing… I never want to witness that again. But this..?"

She shifts, raising her head to look at him.

"So you don't mind what we're doing? What I am now?"

He shakes his head again. When he speaks he enunciates clearly. "I wouldn't give a fuck, love, if you'd come back to me in pieces so long as I could hold you again. There's nothing you do and nothing you are could change that-

"Is that entirely clear?"

She nods and drops her head. "That's entirely clear, Sherlock," she says. She burrows into his chest.  _She feels so safe there_. "Just… Just, thank you. For saying it."

"It is entirely my pleasure," he murmurs, his hands stroking soothing circles on her back and with those words Molly finally allows herself to relax.

* * *

  _Meanwhile,_

_In The Depths of A Palace Unlike Any Other_

Scathach stares at her mirror, frowns at the image it shows her. The darkling she met this morning and her vassal lie together in their bedroom, their attention on nothing but each other. Nothing but their own pleasure.

It's obvious to anyone with eyes to see that the Holmes boy is rather far gone into his mistress' thrall.

Behind her she can hear the Thrice-Born, the one called Moriarty, snickering to himself. Giggling. He seems unpleasantly aroused by the notion that he might watch the darkling and her vassal sporting, a prurience Scathach cannot understand.

She turns away from the Looking Glass, glances to the mortal. "What is it?" she asks tartly. "Have you ne'er seen two wee mortals making ready to tup before?"

The Thrice-Born smiles more widely though. Scoots forward to the mirror. He reaches out and traces the wee darkling's features, his gaze eager. Hungry.

When he looks at her vassal the bloodlust in his eyes in a marvel to look upon.

"You were right," he says. His voice is giddy. "You were right… Our darling Sherlock's falling further and further into perdition, isn't he?" He shakes his head. "I knew when it came to that little nobody that he'd be bloody blind but you, darling- You were wonderful today.

"I do so love it, when everything goes to plan."

And with a sudden bark of laughter he sweeps away from the Looking Glass. Moves to the door which leads to Her Majesty's chambers. He opens the door in invitation- "Will you join us, sweetie?" he asks but Scathach shakes her head.

_The day she lies with that sick shthreel of piss is the day she hands herself to the Sunlight Court and lets her will to live die._

"If you can't please My Lady then you'll have to live with the consequences," she says tartly before walking quickly from the room.

She feels his eyes on her as she goes.

She walks until she's far away from him, her thoughts in darkness, her mind buzzing with possibilities, while in her room the Looking Glass shows the darkling and her vassal.

He holds his mistress deep into the night.


	9. Chapter 9

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to springbok7, oOkatiekinsOo, Katya Jade, Westwinder and stbartsmolly. Sorry about the delay in updates- RL is kicking my arse right now. 

* * *

**~ THE PRICKING OF THUMBS ~**

* * *

 They come through the mirror in Molly's bedroom that night.

Bright, shining. Orbs of light with delicate, firefly wings and sharp teeth.

Bright, shining. Orbs of feeling and magic, more force than intelligent being, their attention set on what their Queen's Champion has sent them to do.

They are the swarmfae and they haven't touched human flesh in oh so long.

They murmur it to themselves as they lay their hands on Molly. On Sherlock. Everything they touch, they infuse with magic. Everything they touch, they gift with their Queen's will. They breathe in the strength of the mortal's and the immortal's affection for one another and it's an ambrosia more potent than any in their own realm. They grow drunk on it. They grow giddy.

Not even the taste of iron on the air can change that.

One by one they sample the darkling's flesh and her lover's; It's a gift for their Lady, a homage.

Their woundings leave no mark behind but then they never do.

When they're done they troupe back through the mirror. Report what they've tasted and what they've left to their Queen's consort, the one their Lady calls the Thrice-Born.

He seems pleased with them, gives them a still-beating heart to play with.

Their arms wrapped around each other, innocent, helpless, Sherlock and Molly sleep soundly and see not a thing.

* * *

 Molly wakes the next morning in Sherlock's embrace, his back against hers, his hand at her breast.

When she looks at him she sees he's still asleep, his face careless and innocent in rest. His body slack, heavy, where he lies against her.

The sight makes her smile.

He shifts in his sleep as she does so, almost as if he can feel her pleasure in looking at him and as Molly thinks this he opens his eyes, turned his sleep-hooded gaze upon her.

"Good morning," he says quietly and she smiles. Reaches down for him.

She kisses him and she has the pleasure of seeing his pupils dilate. Hearing his heartbeat accelerating, even when she pulls away.

_She may not like what she has become but her new senses do have their benefits._

Maybe Sherlock thinks the same for he twines his fingers in hers, pulls her hand to his lips and presses a small kiss to her fingers. Then another, to her wrist. Then another, to the delicate skin at the crook of her arm.

He grins at her as he does it and she feels her near-silent heart thudding with delight at the thought.

Taking his cue Molly reaches down, sliding her nose along the edge of his jaw before pressing a kiss to his earlobe. The cords of his neck. She snakes further down his body, straddling him, her lips and tongue darting out to lick his Adam's apple and as she does so she feels his hands go to her hair, holding her head in place.

His hips rock up into her in an unmistakeable rhythm.

Heat curls in her belly, wetness between her legs. He shifts his body, canting his head to the side and bearing his throat, the action causing the hand he has in her hair to tug, ever to slightly, at her scalp and Molly can't help it. She moans. Sensation lights up her body, arousal and heat sliding more firmly through her and she can't help it, her teeth elongate.

She feels the thing within her, the creature, rouse itself.

She feels it prepare itself to have its fill.

Sherlock moans against her mouth, his body going lax and bliss filtering into his expression…

Alarmed at what she's doing to him Molly tries to pull away but he doesn't want to let her. His eyes flicker open, gaze going to hers, and the hands at her hair gentle, though they do not leave.  _She realises with a start that they_ _'_ _re both breathing rather heavily_. She can see him trying to work through the haze of what she's done to him to focus on her, to make sure she's alright. Molly flinches at the thought, well aware that she doesn't deserve such carefulness, not when she's showing her teeth, pressing them against his throat-

"No," he says softly as she looks away. "No, don't be sad. Don't be sad, Molly-"

There's a lump in her throat.

"I'm quite near to hurting you, Sherlock."

She says the words through gritted teeth, trying to turn her head away. The scent of him, it's getting a little more than she can handle. "It's… It's not safe, alright? I can't guarantee-"

"I don't want a guarantee."

And quicker than might have guessed he shifts them both so that they're face to face. Eye to eye. Though her gaze is downcast Molly can feel his breath fan her face as he brings one hand up to push the hair from her brow. She sighs at the sensation and he lets his fingers slide down her cheekbone. Her jaw. He presses a kiss to her forehead, one arm tightening around her waist.

Molly sighs at the sensation, the pleasure in it, opens her eyes and makes to look at him-

And as she does he shifts the hand at her cheek, brings his thumb to stroke her lip. Their eyes lock, brown to blue, and he takes his thumb, brings it to her lengthening teeth.

The incisor breaks skin but he doesn't hiss or swear, oh no.

The room suddenly gets very, very quiet and very, very still.

A single bubble of glistening, ruby-red blood rushes to the surface of his thumb and as Molly watches Sherlock presses the bleeding digit into her mouth. Murmurs to her to suck.

"I want you to be able to taste me," he says.

The heat of his words scorch through her, more incendiary than she thinks even he knows.

She wants to make him see that it's impossible but even as she opens her mouth to do so he presses his thumb in, bloody pad down against her tongue.

Taste explodes in her mouth, pleasure too, and before she really knows what she's doing she's presses him onto his back, her cheeks hollowing as she sucks so hard she hears him hiss, body arching beneath her. The want of pleasure and the will to protect war in her, fear and arousal twining together.

Her body's clamouring for him now, the memory of the first night she bit him- the first night she fed- making her head swim and her hunger lash out: For a moment she feels the knife-edge, the uncertainty of her predicament and then, with a sharp, harsh sigh she pulls away from him. Lets him go.

She tells herself she has to let him go.

She curls in on herself, back to him as she tries to regain her control and as she does so she feels the bed shift. Feels his arms lock around her.

She wants to lash out at him, to tell him to leave her alone but she's afraid of what her greater strength will do to him so she controls herself.

Something tells her she's always going to have to control herself with him.

For a beat the silence stretches out, heavy with unspoken things. Accusations and worry and irritation vie for dominance in her mind. She can't believe he tried to do that to her, tried to endanger himself like that.

Eventually he sighs though, tucks his head onto her shoulder. "Sorry," he says. "I was trying to help."

She stiffens.

"Well don't," she snaps and she feels him shake his head to himself.

_Not for the first time in their acquaintance she's not sure whether she wants to kiss him or deck him._

"I thought it would make things easier," he says quietly. "I thought we might… we might experiment. Get you more comfortable with what you want. What you need."

Molly can't believe what she's hearing. "You thought you could make me comfortable?" she asks incredulously. "You do know what I am now, don't you?"

She feels him shrug against her shoulder. "I know you're scared," he says quietly. "I am too. I know you're still Molly, and I'm so grateful for that, more grateful than I can say. But I-"

He sighs. His arm snakes more tightly around her waist and this time she brings her hand up to rest upon it.

"I can take you being scared of the world," he says. "Or me. Or Mycroft. Or anything else in the long list of potential nemeses which have made themselves felt these last few days."

Despite herself, she gives a slight snort of amusement at that.

"But I can't live with you being scared of yourself, Molly," he murmurs and she feels him press a slight, gentle little kiss behind her ear.

It feels rather more soothing than it should do.

"Your losing your mortality doesn't have to be a loss," he says quietly. "But your losing your faith in yourself would be." Another kiss, this one presses to the underside of her jaw. "I don't want that to happen, not if there's anything I can do to stop it."

And he shifts, about to move away. She stops him.

"You've thought about this," she says.  _She should have guessed as much_.

He nods. "I have. And I want you to know that you can be safe with me. That your appetites-  _all_  your appetites- are not things to be ashamed of or your masters in life."

She turns in his embrace. Looks at him. She can hear the whisper of other memories, other insights, in his voice.

_This is a man who knows all about being ruled by appetites._

"You chose your thumb because you knew I probably couldn't drain you with it," she says.

Again he nods. "You know the human body better than I do, Doctor Hooper," he points out. "You're well aware of the location of all the major arteries-"

She sees it. "-And all the minor ones too." She licks her lips. He meets her eyes and his are nervous. Aroused. They match hers. "I could- I could choose a spot," she says, "far from anywhere which could cause damage…"

"Exactly." He brings his thumb to her mouth, slides it along her lip- It's already healed- about to demonstrate his theory-

Before he can touch her more thoroughly  though his body jerks, eyes darkening.

He takes in a sharp, hissing breath and his body begins to spasm and jerk.


End file.
